Dear Mr. Knightley,
When the Muirs returned from Europe this summer, Mrs. Muir brought out fabric swatches and asked me to pick my favorites. She didn’t tell me why, but now I know.
We were baking cookies yesterday when she asked me to grab a book from her bedroom. I returned. “It’s not there. Could it be somewhere else?”
“Check the guest room. I wandered through there yesterday.”
I walked down the hall, opened the door, and stopped. It’s gorgeous: pale green walls and filmy white-and-green draperies. The bed is covered in a soft floral pattern of whites, greens, and pale orange—lilies, of course.
“It’s yours, Sam. It’s everything you picked out, right?” She sounded tentative as she stood right behind me.
“Mine? My room? Here?”
“Your room, my dear, here.” She hugged me tight.
I was speechless. And that was only the beginning.
Last night the professor and I built a fire and played Trivial Pursuit Book Lover’s Edition. He won, as usual. And while he was basking in the glow of victory, Mrs. Muir asked my opinions about orphans and bonding with second families. They’ve read all my writing and know that my interest has gone beyond personal experience. My research this summer has made me something of an expert. So I gave her my standard professional answers.
And then she blurted out, “Don’t you want parents? A mother? Even grown up, isn’t that a good thing?”
“I expect so. Everyone wants to be loved. And I certainly didn’t get that from my mom and dad.” I looked at her sharply as I realized that she wasn’t talking about them. She was talking about herself. I held my breath.
She looked to the professor, tense, and he nodded almost imperceptibly in reply as he spoke. “We know you’re all grown up, Sam, but we feel so blessed to know you. We’d like to make it permanent. Would you consider becoming our daughter? Officially? On paper?”
He got nervous then and started rapid-firing his words, much like I do. “Think on it . . . We understand if you’re not interested . . . Big decision . . . You will always be welcome here . . . We love you.”
I must have looked bug-eyed, for Mrs. Muir put her hand on the professor’s arm.
“We aren’t asking anything of you. We simply want to love you forever, and thought making it ‘official’ might be fun and give you a tangible sense of family.” She stood there silently and waited.
Looking at her, one might think she seemed peaceful. Her expression was bland, not even expectant, but I saw a familiar look in her eyes. I call it the “trial,” and it’s related to fear. Someone is deciding and weighing your worth: Do you pass? Are you enough? Do you measure up? Are you acceptable?
I know that look, and I hated myself for putting such uncertainty into her mind. How could she not measure up?
I stopped thinking and fretting and simply hugged Mrs. Muir first, erasing her doubts. Then I reached for the professor to join us. They were thrilled—and I am too, but I feel slightly detached. Did Kyle feel this way? Or am I that much more cynical? Alex came to mind, and I mentally stepped back even further. I hate that his memory did that. Will I ever stop protecting myself, and simply love?
We had laughter and cake. Mrs. Muir had baked a cake yesterday morning with a big bold Welcome Home scrolled across the top. I didn’t ask what she would have done had I refused. Everything felt too fragile for jokes. It didn’t sound funny in my mind anyway.
Remember Icarus, the boy who flew too close to the sun? The wax on his beautiful wings melted, and he plunged to his death in the sea. This may sound harsh and random to you, but it hits close to home for me. It’s how I think about big dreams. I’m not being trite or flippant when I say they slip away. I’m serious. Now here’s another I need to hold close and pray won’t disappear.
Yes . . . I wrote “pray.” It’s not a word I’ve used before and not one I write lightly. But I can’t listen to Father John, the Muirs and the Ridleys, and once-upon-a-time Alex, and not believe that there is something to it. How can I not believe that there is a God who exists and loves, when the people before me are infused with that love and pour it out daily? I still can’t grasp that it’s for me, but what if it is? The professor says it’s okay to pray even if I’m not sure.
There’s so much I’m not sure about these days. And these big dreams still frighten me. I recognize that they don’t always slip away. Kyle is with the Ridleys and thriving. And the Muirs seem to be here for the long haul. But my parents didn’t stick, no foster family stuck, I failed every attempt to stand on my own, the Tribune didn’t offer me a job after my internship, I’m not brilliant at Medill, Alex left, Josh never loved me . . . I sound silly, but these were the elements of my “normal” life, my dreams, and I gave each my all.
I try to stick to the people I now love. And I press, push, and pursue my work. But I still don’t measure up. What if I’m not what the Muirs want? What if they tire of the burden? Everyone else always has.
There you have it. Much more than you need to know and much less than what fills my heart and head. See why surrender and love remain so foreign? There is a lot in the way. How can I reach them? I’ve never made it to anything before.
The professor outlined the “adoption,” and it’s so easy. There will be no social workers, classes, hearings, or waiting involved. There’s some paperwork to fill out, and a judge needs to sign it. The professor said I could add their last name to mine if I want. Samantha Moore Muir. It’s certainly better than the name I’ve got.
Have I ever told you about my name? That’s one story I never share . . . Mom left me in an alley at five days old, and someone turned me into the Ninth District Fire Station in Rogers Park, specifically to Captain Sam Moore. When the social worker from DCFS came to take me, she wrote Samantha Moore on the paperwork.
I don’t know if she meant it as a joke or a tribute to the captain, but the name stuck. DCFS found Mom and returned me to her a month later. She got a slap on the wrist, passed some parenting courses, worked some community service hours, and took me home. She never bothered to change my name.
Years later Father John stumbled across these ancient records and drove me by the alley and the fire station. A bunch of fire fighters stood outside cleaning their rig, and I asked if Captain Moore was still around. He blanched when I introduced myself. He said he was sorry I still carried his name—I guess he caught what that meant. I never contacted him again.
I think I’ve told you this before, Mr. Knightley, but a name is a powerful thing. I don’t know that I could have shared so much with you if you were a Mr. Elton or a Frank Churchill. They weren’t honorable men. George Knightley was. So I trusted you on that association alone—at first.
Since then, you have never violated that trust: you paid for graduate school, you allowed Laura to contact me when needed, you clearly read my letters, and you never wrote back, except the two times I demanded it. You have never stretched the terms of our agreement. And you send thoughtful gifts. Okay, the last is not a trust issue, but I do like the gifts. Thank you, Mr. Knightley. As I count big dreams that slipped away, I need to remember that you stuck.
Now I’m completely sidetracked—which illustrates my point: a name is a powerful thing. “Sam Moore” is not a name that I mind changing. I won’t tell the Muirs that or the story of Captain Sam Moore. It reaches a place too deep. I’ll simply request a name change at the office and surprise them. So mark your calendar. December 10 is the date. And, Mr. Knightley, please keep your fingers crossed that it all lasts until then.
Sincerely,
Samantha Moore Muir
(It looks good, doesn’t it?)