Several weeks ago I wrote about a devastating episode in Andy’s life. Only 11 at the time, his foster father told him he couldn’t be on a family photo, because he wasn’t part of the family. Feeling totally rejected and emotionally crushed, he walked down the driveway and onto the road. Fortunately Uncle Ben, a former hippie and still Black Sheep of the family, left the gathering and picked up the young boy in his rusty Volkswagen van. He suggested Andy come and live with him in his small rented house on two acres. Still a hippie at heart, he tended a large garden and kept a goat for milk and chickens for eggs.

I met Andy and Uncle Ben in Tina’s Cafe, not far from their home. We became friends and I wasn’t entirely surprised some three years ago when Uncle Ben invited me to join them for coffee at Tina’s. His serious tone suggested concern. Possibly he needed moral support. Although we were almost the same age, I addressed him as Uncle Ben when Andy was present. Uncle Ben had attended UBC two years, then decided he’d rather drive a logging truck and escape the noise and pace of city life. Almost a dozen years ago an accident had forced him into retirement.

The cafe was almost empty and Tina gave us a few minutes to settle in, then she brought us the usual, coffee for Uncle Ben and me, a root beer for Andy. After a few minutes of light chit chat, Uncle Ben said, “Andy, you’ve been quiet all week. Are you unhappy with what I’m feeding you? ”

I sensed Andy had been expecting the question. “Ever since my father wouldn’t let me be on the family picture,” he began, “I’ve hoped he would change his mind. It’s not that I want to go back. I want to stay with you. But I’d like to know I have a family. I have always felt rejected.” He looked at Uncle Ben, took a slow sip of his root beer, then said, “I know you won’t shut me out, but something in me keeps saying it could happen again. I try not to show it but I’m always scared l’ll be alone.”

He looked at Uncle Ben and myself, as though wondering if we understood. “Dave let me use the phone at the store last Monday,” he continued. “I called my parents’ home. My Dad answered. When I told him I was his son Andy, he said ‘I don’t have a son named Andy’. Then I heard a click. It’s been seven years Uncle Ben, I still really miss my family. Except for you, I have no one.”

“I wondered what was troubling you,” Uncle Ben said, stroking his flowing grey beard. “My brother is a hard man. Before he and Emily got married, I urged her to break off the relationship. I told her Howie is as unbending as our father was. Since Howie told you to get out of the family picture, she has many times pleaded with him to let you come back, but he’s as stubborn as an old farm mule.” Andy swiped at a tear rolling down his cheek.

Tina approached with a second root beer for Andy and topped up the coffee cups. As she walked away Uncle Ben said, “I’ve been considering something.” He stroked the beard again, searching for the right words. “Seven years ago when I picked you up along the road, you needed a home. I was living by myself and feeling lonely. Like you, I don’t have my own family.” He paused, brought the coffee cup to his lips, then set it down again. “Here is what I hope you will think about.” He pulled a pipe from his shirt pocket but made no move to light it. “What I have in mind is pretty unusual, maybe even crazy. I would very much like to adopt you. It would make us a family.”

Seemingly stunned, for a long moment Andy said nothing. He drained the entire contents of his second root beer,then very quietly asked, “Could I still call you Uncle Ben? I’ve kind of gotten used to that.”

“Of course you can Andy,” Uncle Ben said, obviously pleased. “So then we have a deal?” For the first time Andy smiled. “Yes,” he said. “We have an awesome deal!”