When we first moved to Lakehaven, I got to know some women who had adopted internationally. I listened to what they had to say, the pros and cons, and a mom (her name is Francie) who had three adopted kids from Russia, a girl and two boys, swayed me. They were really cute, happy, well-adjusted kids. Francie said it was a lot of paperwork and a lot of bribes(!), but otherwise the process would go smoothly and there was no chance of a birth-parent interference. And I’m Swedish on my mom’s side, and Kyle’s grandmother’s family are descended from Czech settlers who came to Texas, and we thought, right or wrong, a Russian child might look more like a blood relative. I know that shouldn’t matter, but it did, to me.

So, Francie, with the three adorable Russian kids, contacted the service she used to manage the process—they’re called Global Adoption Consultants—and that is how I met Danielle Roberts, your guardian angel (or she will be). I was lucky. They were based in Austin, the only agency here.

Danielle and I met for coffee for the first time to talk. She was striking, dark haired, in a business suit, elegant. Nice watch, nice rings. I notice stuff like that—I think it matters how a person presents themselves. (Warning: you will be a well-dressed baby.)

I bought us both vanilla lattes, and we caught up on my friend Francie and her three gorgeous children. Francie had sent Danielle an email about me, and of course Danielle asked me about writing songs for NSYNC and Britney Spears, and she did that thing people do where they sing the lyric at you, and I smile and nod and say “yeah, I wrote that,” and thankfully she didn’t ask if I was still writing songs and I was suddenly nervous the Russians would charge me more because a couple of songs I’d written had been hits. The musician gets richer than the writer—that’s the way of the world.

And then I said brightly, optimistically: “So, I have a thousand questions.”

“Don’t ever ask a question,” Danielle said. Her face was serious, almost grim. The friendly smile had vanished.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I can’t ask you questions?” Panic blossomed in my chest. This wasn’t going to work.

“You can ask ME anything. Always.” She leaned forward, like she was telling me a secret. “But when you set foot in Russia once we’ve been matched with your baby, you do not ask any questions. You do not challenge the Russians. You do not argue with them. You tell your husband not to explain things to them. You keep your mouths shut, you hand everyone you meet a little money or a gift, and you come home with your baby.”

I was silent. And then I nodded.

“Not every family is suited for this ordeal,” Danielle said.