We returned to Le Nid, the orphanage where Maddie and Charlie began their lives.
It was emotional in ways I wasnât prepared for.
We visited both the nursery, where babies only days old are cared for, and The Annex, where older children and young adults live. We reunited with Madame Oufa, the director, and Charifa, the nurse who loved on Maddie and Charlie when we couldnât be there ourselves. Fifteen years later, they still remember them and shared photos of the trip my dad and I made there, along with laminated photos of us from when we left with the kids for America.
Walking back through those halls was humbling. The orphanage occupies part of the 6th floor of a state-run hospital and while some things have improved, it remains a stark reminder of how differently children experience the world based solely on where they are born.
But the most emotional part of our visit was a young man named Wassim.
Fifteen years ago, while we were completing the adoption process for Maddie and Charlie, there was a bright-eyed five-year-old boy who stole a piece of my heart. His name was Wassim. Some friends may remember me talking of him.
He would draw me pictures. Weâd sing songs together. And each of the three times I visited, he would call me Mama and ask if I could take him home too.
I remember leaving Morocco believing God had a plan for him and that he would surely find his forever family soon.
He didnât.
Today, at 21 years old, Wassim is still there.
The Belgian family that once planned to adopt him changed their minds. As the director later explained, watching other children leave while he remained behind left a deep wound on his heart. Over time, he came to believe something no child should ever believe:
That he was unlovable.
While Charlie recovered from a rough night of food poisoning, after learning he was still at The Annex, Maddie and I returned to see Wassim.
When he walked into the room, my heart skipped a beat.
He didnât remember me. How could he? Fifteen years is a lifetime to a kid.
But I remembered him.
For fifteen years, Iâve wondered what became of that little boy. Maddie and Charlie grew up hearing about him - the child I always worried about, the child I felt I left behind.
We spent hours talking with him, sharing photos, laughing, and learning about the life heâs lived.
He didnât finish high school, but he earned a certificate in sewing and cloth cutting. He hopes to join the Army, but an injury to his arm has complicated that path. Now heâs exploring other opportunities, including learning to drive, which ultimately could provide a meaningful career.
What struck me most wasnât what he lacked.
It was his kindness.
His resilience.
His hope.
As we walked together through the neighborhood, he proudly showed us the elementary school he attended. At one point, he simply reached for my hand and held it tight and didn't let go.
And in that moment, all I could think was this:
The orphanage provided him with food, clothing, and shelter.
But it couldnât give him a mother.
It couldnât give him a father.
It couldnât give him the certainty that someone in this world belonged to him.
Before we left, he reached into his wallet and handed me three small passport-type photographs of himself.
âChoose one,â he said, âso I can stay close to you.â Maddie chose one and I will treasure that photograph for the rest of my life.
As we got into the taxi, he cried.
And, so did I.
Back at the hotel, we shared the experience with Matt and Charlie. We talked, laughed, cried, and tried to process everything weâd seen.
At one point Maddie looked at us and said:
âDoes anyone not get this? This experience makes you rethink your whole life.â
Sheâs right.
It does.
Iâve spent much of today reflecting and asking God how we can help beyond supporting one more kid on the road - not just Wassim, but all of these children who deserve the same thing every child deserves:
A chance.
A family.
Someone to believe in them.
If youâd like to follow Wassimâs journey or learn how you might help support his next steps toward independence, please reach out directly.
As they say in Morocco, Inshallah (God willing).
Next Stop: Sahara! đŞ