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?”
