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“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.”
“All of us?” Tessa asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “All of you. I’m not interested in just one.”
Her lips twitched slightly. “What if you change your mind?”
“I won’t. You’ve had enough people do that already.”
Ruby peeked out. “Do you have snacks?”
I grinned. “Yeah, I’ve always got snacks.”
Karen let out a soft chuckle behind me.
After that came court.
The judge asked, “Mr. Ross, do you understand you are assuming full legal and financial responsibility for four minor children?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I answered. I was terrified, but I meant every word.
The day they moved in, the silence in my house disappeared. Four pairs of shoes by the door. Four backpacks dropped in a heap.
The first few weeks were tough.
Ruby woke most nights crying for her mom. I’d sit on the floor beside her bed until she drifted back to sleep.
Cole pushed every boundary.
“You’re not my real dad,” he yelled once.
“I know,” I replied. “But it’s still no.”
Tessa lingered in doorways, watching me closely, ready to intervene if she felt she had to. Owen tried to take care of everyone and eventually buckled under the weight.
I ruined meals. I stepped on Legos. I locked myself in the bathroom sometimes just to catch my breath.
But it wasn’t only hard.
Ruby would fall asleep on my chest during movie nights. Cole handed me a crayon drawing of stick figures holding hands and said, “This is us. That’s you.”
Tessa slid a school permission slip toward me and asked, “Can you sign this?” She’d written my last name after hers.
One night, Owen stopped at my bedroom door. “Goodnight, Dad,” he said, then stiffened.
I pretended nothing unusual had happened.
“Goodnight, buddy,” I replied.
Inside, my hands were trembling.
About a year after the adoption was finalized, life felt… ordinary, in its chaotic way. School runs, homework battles, doctor visits, soccer practice, arguments about screen time.
The house buzzed with noise and energy.
One morning, after dropping them off at school and daycare, I returned home to start work.
Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone.
A woman in a dark suit stood outside, holding a leather briefcase. “Good morning. Are you Michael? And you’re the adoptive father of Owen, Tessa, Cole, and Ruby?”
“Yes,” I said. “Are they okay?”
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