For two years, my house had been weighed down by silence. My wife Lauren and six-year-old son Caleb were gone, taken in a car crash. I drifted through life—couch, takeout, work—existing as a ghost in my own home.
Then, one night at 2 a.m., a social media post stopped me: four siblings—Owen, nine; Tessa, seven; Cole, five; and Ruby, three—facing foster separation after losing their parents. The thought of them being split apart hit me like a physical blow. By morning, I had called the agency: I wanted them—all four.
The adoption process was grueling, and our first meeting awkward. But gradually, our chaotic household filled with laughter, tears, spilled juice, and bedtime fears. I wasn’t replacing my family, but I could help these children hold onto each other.
A year later, a lawyer came with a revelation: their parents had left a trust with a clear request—the kids were never to be separated. I had unknowingly fulfilled their dying wish. Visiting their old home, the children recognized every corner, every memory, and it became clear: they were always meant to be together.
I’m not their first father, but I am the one who refused to let the system tear them apart. In saving them, I found a family, and in their laughter and “Goodnight, Dad” calls, I found life again.