The plan was to split them up on top of that.
Picked it up again.
I knew what it was like to walk out of a hospital alone.
Those kids had already lost their parents.
At that moment, the plan was to split them up on top of that.
I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw four kids in some office, holding hands, waiting to hear who was leaving.
“Child Services, this is Karen.”
In the morning, the post was still on my screen. There was a number at the bottom. Before I could talk myself out of it, I hit call.
“Child Services, this is Karen,” a woman said.
“Hi,” I said. “My name is Michael Ross. I saw the post about the four siblings. Are they still… needing a home?”
She paused.
You’re just asking questions.
“Yes,” she said. “They are.”
“Can I come in and talk about them?”
She sounded surprised. “Of course. We can meet this afternoon.”
On the drive over, I kept telling myself, You’re just asking questions.
Deep down, I knew that wasn’t true.
“Their parents died in a car accident.”
In her office, Karen laid a file on the table.
“They’re good kids,” she said. “They’ve been through a lot.” She opened the file. “Owen is nine. Tessa is seven. Cole is five. Ruby is three.”
I repeated the names in my head.
“Their parents died in a car accident,” Karen continued. “No extended family could take all four. They’re in temporary care now.”
“It’s what the system allows.”
“So what happens if no one takes all four?” I asked.
She exhaled. “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 stared at the file.
“All four?”
“I’ll take all four,” I said.
“All four?” Karen repeated.
“Yes. All four. I know there’s a process. I’m not saying hand them over tomorrow. But if the only reason you’re splitting them up is that nobody wants four kids… I do.”
She looked right at me. “Why?”
“How are you handling your grief?”
“Because they already lost their parents. They shouldn’t have to lose each other, too.”
That started months of checks and paperwork.
A therapist I had to see asked, “How are you handling your grief?”
“Badly,” I said. “But I’m still here.”
***
The first time I met the kids, it was in a visitation room with ugly chairs and fluorescent lights. All four were on one couch, shoulders and knees touching.
“Are you the man who’s taking us?”
I sat down across from them.
