At the funeral, I saw them for the first time. Two small figures in black dresses, clutching each other’s hands like lifelines. Their wide, lost eyes tugged at something deep within me. Despite my devastation, my heart ached for them. They were just three years old—innocent victims of circumstances they never chose.
“I’ll take them,” I found myself saying, even as my mother tried to dissuade me. “They deserve love, not blame.”
The adoption process was grueling. Questions from caseworkers cut deep. Why would I adopt my late husband’s secret children? Was I seeking revenge or atonement? I pushed through it all, determined to give Carrie and Dana the stability they deserved.
The early years were a delicate dance of love and healing. The girls, wary and cautious, whispered late at night about the possibility of being sent away. It broke my heart to hear their fears, and I worked tirelessly to show them they were home.
As they grew, the truth about their father became harder to avoid. When they were ten, I sat them down and told them everything: Andrew’s betrayal, their mother’s tragic death, and how I chose them because I loved them. Their initial reaction was anger and confusion, cutting me with questions that echoed my own pain. But I held on, hoping time would heal the wounds.
Teenage years brought new challenges. Arguments turned cruel, and their words often left scars. “At least our real mom wanted us!” or “Maybe she’d still be alive if it weren’t for you!” I endured it all, knowing their anger came from a place of hurt.
Then, shortly after their sixteenth birthday, I came home to find myself locked out. A note on the door read, “We need our space. Go stay with your mom!” My heart broke as I saw my suitcase by the door. For a week, I stayed with my mother, second-guessing every decision I had ever made. What if I had failed them?
But on the seventh day, my phone rang. It was Carrie, her voice small and trembling. “Mom? Can you come home?”
When I walked through the door, I was stunned. The house had been transformed—fresh paint on the walls, polished floors, and even a new home office where their nursery used to be. The girls appeared, grinning nervously.
“We wanted to surprise you,” Dana explained, bouncing on her toes. “We’ve been working and saving for months.”
Carrie chimed in, “We’re so sorry for the note. It was the only way to keep it a secret.”
In the office, they showed me a framed photo of the three of us on adoption day, smiling through tears. “You gave us a family, Mom,” Carrie whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Even though it hurt, even though you didn’t have to. You chose us, and you’ve been the best mom we could ever ask for.”
Tears streamed down my face as I pulled them close. “You two are the greatest gifts of my life. I love you more than words can say.”
Dana pressed her cheek against mine. “We’ve always known, Mom. We’ve always known.”
