Their parents were gone. No family could take them all. If no one stepped forward, they would be placed in different homes.
That single line—likely to be separated—hit harder than anything I’d read in two years. I studied their faces, the way the oldest leaned protectively toward the others, the way they looked like they were bracing for another loss. I knew what it meant to walk away alone after a hospital hallway goodbye.
By morning, I was calling Child Services, telling myself I was only asking questions, even though I already knew the truth.
The process was long—paperwork, interviews, therapy, waiting—but eventually I met them in a plain visitation room under harsh lights. They sat shoulder to shoulder, cautious and watchful. I told them my name.
I told them I wasn’t interested in choosing just one. When I said I wouldn’t change my mind, something in the room softened. Life after that was loud and messy and hard.
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