“We only have room for one,” I told the social worker. But when I saw five-year-old Mia crying in the car while her brother stood frozen on our porch, the lie evaporated. Our house was small, but our hearts? Apparently, they had space we didn’t know about.
Those first nights were quiet. The children moved through our home like ghosts, flinching at sudden noises. We learned quickly that separating them wasn’t an option—Mia wouldn’t sleep unless she could touch Liam. So we took apart the furniture and made room.
What was supposed to be 48 hours stretched into weeks, then months. We watched them blossom—Liam’s first real laugh, Mia singing to herself while coloring. When reunification became possible, their birth mother saw what we saw: kids who’d finally found safety. Her selfless decision to let them stay with us still humbles me.
Now, years later, our adoption papers are signed and framed. The bunk beds are long gone, replaced by side-by-side rooms they still wander between at night. People say we saved them, but the truth? They saved us right back.
