Ruby, a two-year-old with Down syndrome, was rejected 43 times by potential adoptive families who saw her as a burden. I’m John “Bear” Morrison, a 64-year-old widower and motorcycle mechanic, living alone above my shop. I’d been fixing the adoption agency’s vehicles for free when Ruby, in her pink shirt and rainbow leggings, toddled up to me, demanding “Up!” Her almond-shaped eyes sparkled, and she called me “Bear friend.”
After her 43rd rejection, I decided to adopt her. The agency doubted a single, older man could handle her needs, but I sold my beloved Harley, converted my apartment, and learned about her therapies. Three months later, the committee approved me. Ruby ran into my arms, screaming “BEAR!”
Raising her wasn’t easy—speech struggles, medical appointments—but her laughter and love lit up my life. By five, she chattered sentences; by twelve, she was “Cub” to my “Bear,” charming customers at my shop. At sixteen, she wrote a letter about opening “Ruby’s Place,” a hangout for kids with special needs. We made it happen, and it became a beacon of hope.
Now twenty-two, Ruby still wears rainbow leggings and brings me coffee. She picked me first, and I’m forever grateful. Family is love, not blood. Ruby, the world’s “burden,” is my greatest blessing.
