Needless to say, I was devastated. If I couldn’t adopt from Afrique, I wasn’t sure I wanted to adopt at all. (For reasons why, please see my first post). I scoured the internet. I searched for precedents, loopholes, by-laws, testimonials; any ammunition I could find that would help my case. Nothing. The lawyers at ICAA were unyielding. They were yet to tell me officially, but I presumed my application would eventually be denied.
To make matters worse, the economic recession was just hitting Spain and my work dried up, seemingly overnight. Six months later, things had gone from bad to worse. I was broke and unemployed during a bitterly cold winter, and, in light of no word from the ICAA’s lawyer, no closer to being a mother than I was when I put in my first round of paperwork. I was heartbroken.
So I did what I generally do when faced with grave adversity and ran away. I spent a glorious Christmas in the southern sunshine with my family. I had almost given up hope of my adoption plans when out of the blue an email came from ICAA’s lawyer—they had accepted my application. I never asked why or what had made them change their mind. I simply wept in my mother’s arms and then hurried back to Barcelona.
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