In August 2015, my husband told me he wasn’t happy anymore. Instead of working on our marriage, he walked away. By February 2016, our divorce was final. He had been gone for six months before that, so by the time it was official, I had already begun to accept it. Still, it felt like the end of a dream. I was in my forties, divorced, and the hope of ever becoming a mother felt lost.
I attempted to occupy the silence that ensued. I did BYOB painting classes, hung out in the evenings with a friend who was going through her own divorce, and read with second graders as a reading buddy. Life was not as planned, but some sort of rebuilding was attempted out of scraps remaining.
Then, six weeks later after the divorce, my cousin texted something that turned everything around: “Would you want to adopt?” She had two small boys already—one living with my aunt and one in foster care—and was pregnant with a baby girl. My aunt was in her late sixties and already snowed under. Without much ado, I agreed. Family was family, and I could not bear for those babies to go to strangers.
My parents supported me, though my dad worried my cousin might change her mind. My mom, however, was thrilled. She lived across the street and promised to help me however I needed. It wasn’t perfect timing, but it felt right.
By Christmas of 2016, I was losing hope. Paperwork and foster licensure were dragging on. Nevertheless, I erected my tree, decorated my house, and wrapped presents just in case. Two days after Christmas Eve, my phone was ringing. It was the caseworker: “Everything’s approved. When can you pick them up?”
Ten hours after, I was on my way home with my aunt. We brought home a seven-month-old baby girl and a two-year-old boy at midnight on Christmas Eve. It was the greatest present I’d ever gotten.
The first few months were tough. Isaak, my nephew, suffered from food hoarding and hardly spoke. He required speech therapy and non-stop attention. His baby sister, Kaylee, was the eye of the storm—a happy, easy baby who cried very little. I knew in short order that I wasn’t as patient as I used to be when I was younger. There were nights I sat on the side of my bed, tired and questioning my judgment, wondering if I’d made a monumental error. But gradually, we found our groove.
Isaak became my cuddle bug sweetheart, and Kaylee became a bundle of sass and sunshine. My mom loved them both and often told Isaak “he needed to be someone’s favorite.” My aunt hugged Kaylee as her own little shadow. Seeing them together made all the difficult times worth it.
Life had yet more heartbreak in store, though. My aunt’s liver gave out within two years, and my mom was diagnosed with brain and lung cancer. I set up hospice at home and attempted to maintain as normal an existence for the children as possible. They would ride their bikes out to gather flowers for Gammy and roll her wheelchair. She died less than a month after diagnosis. My aunt died ten days later.
I never did get to properly grieve. The children were too young to comprehend, yet they still mention Gammy. They flip through photo albums and identify her. “That’s Gammy,” Kaylee whispers. It warms and shatters my heart all at once.
Some dear family friends volunteered to pay for the adoption, ensuring the children would never have to part with me. In January of 2020, I finalized the papers, sobbing with happiness. It was done. They were mine. Isaak and Kaylee had a forever home.
Now they’re six and seven—happy, giggly, and full of energy. Isaak is a Lego fanatic; Kaylee can never have enough story time. Sometimes, when we drive into the driveway, Isaak will say, “My home.” And I smile and say, “Yes, buddy. Your home. Always.”
