For the first time in my life, I knew exactly where I belonged. And it wasn’t a place. It was a choice.
A choice I was finally strong enough to make. Six months later, I was standing in front of a congressional subcommittee explaining how charity fraud in adoption services could be prevented through better oversight and transparency requirements. The Morrison Foundation had collapsed within two weeks of that disastrous charity banquet.
The federal investigation revealed financial irregularities going back years, including donations that had been diverted to personal expenses and programs that existed only on paper. Robert was facing criminal charges for fraud and tax evasion. Rebecca and Catherine were dealing with civil lawsuits from donors who demanded restitution.
But more importantly, the exposure of their lies had led to real reforms in how adoption advocacy organizations were monitored and funded. Other families had come forward with their own stories of abuse and neglect by supposedly charitable organizations. Children who might have fallen through the same cracks I did were now better protected.
Ms. Morrison, the committee chair said, or do you prefer Ms. Chun now? Actually, it’s Dr. Chun, Daniel said from the gallery behind me, and I could hear the pride in his voice. She finished her law degree in record time and just defended her dissertation on adoption law reform. I smiled back at my husband of three months.
But Corlette is fine. The hearing went well. My testimony, along with the evidence we’d gathered about systemic problems in charity oversight, resulted in new legislation that would require independent auditing of adoption advocacy organizations.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. Afterward, Daniel and I walked out of the Capitol building together, past reporters who wanted to know about our foundation’s next initiative. Yes, we’d started our own foundation, the Chun Morrison Institute for Adoption Advocacy, dedicated to providing real support for adoptive families and ensuring that children’s needs always came first.
We funded legal aid clinics, family counseling services, and educational programs that taught adoptive parents how to help children heal from trauma instead of expecting them to be grateful for basic care. How does it feel to be Dr. Chun? Daniel asked as we got into the car. Like I finally know who I am, I said, and like I have the tools to help other people figure out who they are too.
It had been a whirlwind six months. After the truth about the Morrison family came out, I’d received dozens of calls from other adult adoptees who had similar experiences with families who treated adoption as charity rather than commitment. Their stories broke my heart and fueled my determination to change the system that had failed us all.
I’d gone back to school immediately, using my birth mother’s inheritance to fund an accelerated law program focused on family law and children’s rights. Daniel had supported me through every late night of studying and every moment of imposter syndrome when I worried I wasn’t smart enough or strong enough to make a real difference. But the work felt like coming home in a way that nothing else ever had.
When I helped a family navigate a complicated adoption process, when I wrote policy recommendations that would protect vulnerable children, when I stood in front of lawmakers and told them why these issues mattered, I felt like I was using everything I’d learned from my own experience to build something better. There’s something I want to show you, Daniel said as we drove through the city. What kind of something? The kind that requires you to trust me and not ask too many questions.
I laughed. After everything we’ve been through, I think I can manage that. He drove us to a neighborhood I didn’t recognize, full of restored Victorian houses with wraparound porches and mature trees.
When he pulled into the driveway of a pale yellow house with white trim and a swing on the front porch, I felt my breath catch. Daniel, what is this? This, he said, getting out of the car and coming around to open my door, is home. If you want it to be.
The house was perfect. Not too big, not too small, with a library that had built-in bookshelves and a kitchen that opened onto a garden where someone could grow vegetables and flowers. There was a nursery upstairs, ready for the children we’d talked about adopting someday, and a home office where I could work on cases that mattered to me.
The previous owners were an elderly couple who raised six children here, Daniel explained as we walked through the rooms. All adopted, all loved, all successful adults now. When they heard about our foundation, they insisted on selling to us.
They said the house was meant for people who understood what family really means. I stood in the living room, looking out at the garden through windows that let in streams of golden afternoon light, and I felt something I’d never experienced before. Complete peace.
Complete belonging. Not because I’d earned it or proven I was worthy of it, but because I’d chosen it and been chosen in return. So what do you think? Daniel asked, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
I think, I said, leaning back against his chest, that seven-year-old me would never have believed this was possible. And what about current you? Current me knows that the best stories are the ones where broken things get rebuilt into something stronger than they ever were before. Two years later, our house was full of the sounds of real family.
We’d adopted two children through the same legal aid clinic where I’d once worked. Maya, age eight, whose birth parents had struggled with addiction, but who had the briest smile and the sharpest questions about everything from why the sky was blue to whether it was possible to become a lawyer and an astronaut at the same time. And James, age five, who had been in foster care for two years and who had taught me that trust was something you built one bedtime story at a time.
Neither of them called us mom and dad yet. They weren’t ready for that kind of commitment, and we weren’t pushing. But they called our house home, and they knew they were safe there, and that felt like the most important foundation we could build.
I was in the kitchen making Maya’s lunch for school when Daniel found me there, holding an envelope with the official seal of the Department of Health and Human Services. What’s that? I asked. An invitation, he said, his smile wide with excitement.
They want you to head the new National Commission on Adoption Reform. I stared at the letter, hardly believing what I was reading, a position that would let me influence adoption policy at the federal level, that would give me the resources to protect children and support families across the entire country. It’s based in D.C., Daniel continued.
But there’s funding for family relocation, and they specifically mentioned that they want someone who understands these issues from personal experience. What about your company? What about everything you’ve built here? Daniel’s expression softened. Corlette, I’ve spent the last five years watching you turn your worst experiences into ways to help other people.
I’ve seen you testify before Congress and write policy papers and counsel families through some of the hardest moments of their lives. If they’re offering you the chance to do that work on a national scale, then we’re moving to D.C. That night, after Maya and James were asleep, Daniel and I sat on our front porch swing and talked about the future, about the house we’d have to leave and the new adventure we’d be starting, about the children we might be able to help and the families we might be able to protect. Are you nervous? Daniel asked.
Terrified, I admitted. But also excited. Also grateful.
Grateful. I thought about the question, about everything that had brought me to this moment. The pain and the abandonment, and the years of feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere.
The courage it had taken to walk back into that ballroom and tell the truth. The love that had found me even when I wasn’t looking for it. I’m grateful for the journey, I said finally.
All of it. Even the parts that broke me, because those are the parts that taught me how to rebuild myself into someone strong enough to help other people do the same thing. Daniel squeezed my hand.
Margaret would be proud of you. I think so too. I think she’d be proud of all of us.
As we sat there in the comfortable darkness, I heard Maya’s voice from upstairs calling for a glass of water, and James asking if someone could check under his bed for monsters. Normal sounds of a normal family, built on choice and commitment, and the understanding that love wasn’t something you had to earn. I got up to take care of our children, these beautiful souls who had been entrusted to our care, and I felt the weight of responsibility and privilege that comes with being chosen as someone’s safe person.
Tomorrow, I would call the Department of Health and Human Services and accept their offer. I would start the process of moving our family to Washington, where I could work to make sure that adoption meant what it was supposed to mean, permanent love, unconditional commitment, and the understanding that every child deserves to be wanted. But tonight, I was just a woman who had learned that family isn’t about blood or law or perfect circumstances.
Family is about people who choose to see the best in each other and refuse to give up, even when the world tries to convince them they don’t belong anywhere. And I had finally found mine.
