The Boy Who Asked to Be Adopted — But Only on Weekends

The first letter appeared on a Tuesday, tucked under my windshield wiper.
It was folded in four, the paper creased and worn, as if it had spent days in someone’s pocket.

I opened it without thinking too much.

Looking for a family. Only Saturdays and Sundays. I don’t bother anyone during the week. I’ll be at San Martín Square if someone wants to come.

—Lucas, 9 years old.

I stared at the note through the whole red light.
By the time I got home, I couldn’t get it out of my head.

That Saturday, I went to the square.

I recognized him instantly — sitting on the edge of the fountain, a torn backpack by his feet, a handful of identical letters spread across his knees. His hair was unevenly cut, like someone had used dull scissors and no mirror. His sneakers were at least two sizes too big.

“Lucas?” I asked, approaching slowly.

He looked up. His eyes were enormous — dark, deep, too old for his face.

“You came because of the letter?” he asked, without a hint of shyness.

“I came because of the letter,” I said. “Can I sit?”

He shrugged. I sat beside him, leaving space between us.

“Why only weekends?” I asked after a while.

Lucas looked toward the fountain, where pigeons pecked at crumbs.

“Because during the week, I have to be on the street. That’s how it works. But on weekends… on weekends, people do things. They go to the park. Have barbecues. Watch movies.” He paused. “I just want a piece of that. I’m not asking to stay forever. Just… a Sunday. Or two.”

My throat tightened.

“Don’t you have a family?”

“My mom’s in the psych hospital. She doesn’t know who I am when I visit.” He said it plainly, like someone saying it might rain today. “And my dad… I don’t know where he is.”

“What about social services?”

Lucas gave a dry laugh that didn’t belong to a child.

“I’ve been in three shelters. I ran away from all of them. Everyone there’s broken, you know? And when everyone’s broken, no one can fix anyone.”
He looked at me — steady, unblinking. “But a real family… even for a little while… that could be nice.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I asked,

“What would you do on those weekends?”

His eyes lit up for the first time.

“Nothing special. Have breakfast at a table. Watch cartoons on a couch. Have someone ask me how I slept.” His voice dropped. “Have someone say ‘goodnight’ — and mean it.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

By Monday, Lucas’s story had exploded online.
Someone had taken a picture of one of his letters and posted it on social media. Within two days, every news outlet was talking about “the boy who wants a part-time family.”

Opinions split like lightning.

“It’s heartbreaking — someone has to help him!”
“This is the government’s fault — where are the child protection services?”
“You can’t let a child decide how to be adopted. This is madness.”
“What if it’s fake? Could be a scam.”

My phone filled with messages — people offering help, demanding answers, asking if it was real.

The next Saturday, San Martín Square was crowded.
Families, couples, single people — all waiting to meet Lucas. There were TV cameras, reporters, even a government official.

Lucas wasn’t there.

I found him two blocks away, sitting on the steps of a closed church.

“Why did you leave?” I asked, sitting beside him.

“Because they wanted to make me famous. They wanted to ‘save’ me.”
He made air quotes with his fingers. “But no one asked what I wanted.”

“And what do you want, Lucas?”

He was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I want someone to love me — not as a project, not to feel good about themselves. Just… love me. For a bit. However long they can.”
He looked at me with those deep, bottomless eyes. “Is that too much to ask?”

I reached out my hand.

“How about we go get something to eat? I know a place with the best pizza in the neighborhood.”

Lucas looked at my hand like it was something fragile, something that might disappear if he touched it. Then, slowly, he took it.

“Does this count as Sunday?” he asked as we walked.

“It’s Saturday,” I said. “But yeah — it counts.”

For the first time, he smiled.
A small, cracked smile — but real.

“Then it’s okay.”

That night, Lucas slept on my couch. I gave him a pillow and a blanket. Before turning off the light, he said:

“Thanks for not trying to fix me.”

“You’re not broken, Lucas.”

“Everyone thinks I am.”

“They’re wrong.”

He turned toward the wall. I thought he was asleep, but then his voice came softly from the dark:

“Can I come back next weekend?”

“You can come back every weekend you want.”

He wasn’t asking for a roof.
He was asking for tenderness — part-time.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to begin.