The coffee in her kitchen was rarely hot. Each morning, it brewed faithfully at 6:05, filling the air with a promise she never quite had time to enjoy. Between the cries of babies, the shuffle of small feet, and the whirlwind of breakfast, brushing hair, and finding missing shoes, her cup would sit untouched. Hours later, she’d take a sip, and the warmth was long gone by then. It didn’t matter. Cold coffee was simply part of this season of her life.
Julianna had been a single foster mother for years, caring for twelve children. Some stayed for months, some for years, and some were found forever in her arms. Her home was full of the sound of life, and her heart was equally crowded with stories that began in pain but often bloomed into something resembling hope.
When she first got her foster license, she’d imagined children filling her empty rooms, but she never quite grasped how much those rooms would fill her in return. Four and a half years later, her days were a blur of diapers, laughter, meltdowns, and homework. Adoption number five was already on the horizon. It hadn’t been the plan, but plans rarely stood firm once love entered the picture.
Life as a foster mom was messy and beautiful, a mix of exhaustion and purpose. There were days when the chaos felt endless, she longed for a quiet moment, and nights when the house hummed with the deep breathing of children who had finally learned to sleep without fear. She often reminded herself that life moved in seasons, and this was hers, cold coffee, unmade beds, and all. Yet beneath the noise and laughter was the shadow of something heavier: addiction. Many of the children in her care came from parents battling it. Julianna had seen the heartbreak up close, the way addiction tore apart families and futures. She wasn’t just caring for children; she stood in the gap between brokenness and healing.
One day, a mother she knew wrote to her after relapsing again. The woman was drowning in shame, terrified that Julianna might think differently of her. Julianna read the message slowly, feeling the ache behind every word. She didn’t see a failure; she saw a human being crushed under the weight of her mistakes, someone still fighting to climb out of them.
The message stayed with her. It reminded her that addiction wasn’t just a statistic or a headline—it was the reason so many of her little ones called her “Mama.” These birth parents had missed the first steps, the first words, the sleepy snuggles at bedtime. They had missed entire chapters of their children’s lives, all because of something that once promised relief but stole everything instead. Julianna often thought about that mother when she tucked her kids in at night. She imagined what it would feel like to be on the other side of that loss, to know that someone else was collecting the moments meant for you. It was enough to break anyone’s heart.
Still, she refused to live in bitterness. Her role as a foster mom wasn’t to replace anyone but to love fully in the time she was given. Some children would stay forever; others would leave and take a piece of her heart with them. She had learned to accept both. In the quiet moments, those rare times when the house finally slept, Julianna would find her cold coffee and smile. This, she reminded herself, was the good stuff. The chaos, the mess, the endless questions from curious little voices, all of it was the texture of a life lived deeply.
There would come a day when her coffee stayed hot, when her mornings weren’t filled with little feet and sticky fingers. For now, she hoped that day would take its time. Her wish was simple: may her to-do list go unfinished, her days stay full, and her soul continue to find peace in the beautiful chaos she’d been given. Because somewhere between the spilled milk and the late-night cuddles, she had seen a purpose that no title or job could replace. And maybe, just maybe, her cold coffee had never tasted sweeter.
