I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in our bedroom.
I camped out on the couch, the television glowing through the night.
I went to work, came home, ordered takeout, and stared into space.
People told me, “You’re so strong.”
I wasn’t strong. I was just alive.
About a year after the crash, I was on that same couch at two in the morning, mindlessly scrolling through Facebook.
Endless posts. Political debates. Dog videos. Travel photos.
Then something stopped me.
A post shared from a local news outlet.
“Four siblings need a home.”
It came from a child welfare page. The picture showed four children sitting close together on a bench.
The caption said:
“Four siblings in urgent need of placement. Ages 3, 5, 7, and 9. Both parents deceased. No extended family able to care for all four. If no home is found, they will likely be separated into different adoptive families. We are urgently seeking someone willing to keep them together.”
“Likely be separated.”
That line hit like a punch.
I enlarged the image.
The oldest boy had an arm draped protectively around the girl beside him. The younger boy looked mid-motion, like he hadn’t been able to sit still for the shot. The smallest girl held a stuffed bear tight and pressed herself against her brother.
They didn’t seem optimistic.
They seemed prepared for impact.
I scrolled through the comments.
“So heartbreaking.”
“Shared.”
“Praying for them.”
Not a single person writing, “We’ll take them.”
I set my phone down.
Then picked it back up.
I knew the feeling of leaving a hospital with no one beside you.
Those children had already buried their parents.
And now the plan was to separate them, too.
I barely slept that night. Every time I shut my eyes, I pictured four kids sitting in some office, fingers intertwined, waiting to find out who was being taken away.
By morning, the post was still there. A phone number sat at the bottom. Before I could second-guess myself, I pressed call.
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