By morning, the post was still there. A phone number sat at the bottom. Before I could second-guess myself, I pressed call.
“Child Services, this is Karen,” a woman answered.
“Hi,” I said. “My name is Michael Ross. I saw the post about the four siblings. Are they still… needing a home?”
There was a pause.
“Yes,” she replied. “They are.”
“Can I come in and talk about them?”
She sounded caught off guard. “Of course. We can meet this afternoon.”
On the drive there, I kept repeating to myself, You’re just gathering information.
But deep down, I knew that wasn’t the truth.
In her office, Karen placed a folder in front of me.
“They’re good kids,” she said. “They’ve been through a lot.” She opened it. “Owen is nine. Tessa is seven. Cole is five. Ruby is three.”
I went over the names silently.
“Their parents died in a car accident,” Karen continued. “No extended family could take all four. They’re in temporary care now.”
“So what happens if no one takes all four?” I asked.
She let out a breath. “Then they’ll be placed separately. Most families can’t take that many children at once.”
“Is that what you want?”
“It’s what the system allows,” she said. “It’s not ideal.”
I kept my eyes on the file.
“I’ll take all four,” I said.
“All four?” Karen echoed.
“Yes. All four. I know there’s a process. I’m not asking you to hand them over tomorrow. But if the only reason you’re separating them is because no one wants four kids… I do.”
She met my gaze. “Why?”
“Because they’ve already lost their parents. They shouldn’t have to lose each other too.”
That answer led to months of evaluations and endless forms.
A counselor I was required to meet with asked, “How are you managing your grief?”
“Not well,” I admitted. “But I’m still standing.”
The first time I saw them in person, it was inside a visitation room with harsh lighting and mismatched chairs. The four of them sat crammed together on one couch, shoulders and knees pressed tight.
I took a seat opposite them.
“Hey, I’m Michael.”
Ruby buried her face in Owen’s shirt. Cole focused on my shoes. Tessa crossed her arms, chin lifted, all suspicion. Owen studied me like someone far older than nine.
“Are you the man who’s taking us?” he asked.
“If you want me to be.”
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