If he goes, will we stay?

If he stays, will we go?

If he goes,  will this city begin to feel too small – full of shadows and ghosts?

If he stays, will I see his parents on every corner – in every store aisle – at every street festival?

If he goes, will they make him blueberry pancakes on Saturday mornings?

If he is not number 1, then who will be?

If he goes, when will I laugh again?

If he stays, will he see his family again?

If he goes, could I ever stand to see him again?

If he goes, how can I not compare any that come after him?

If he goes, how long before he forgets us?

If he stays, how long before we must explain how he came to be with two daddies?

If he stays, I must always remember that our gain is his loss.

If he stays, I can only hope that I rise to the occasion that such a privilege provides.

If he goes, will he love him more than he loves me?

If he goes, does that mean God heard my request to take care of him?

If he stays, does that mean God heard my request to take care of him?

If he goes, I’m afraid I’ll forget how to breathe.

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