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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