The oldest boy was six years old.
And he was already acting like a father.
That was the first thing I noticed.
He sat at the far end of a plastic bench outside Willowcrest Family Court, one arm wrapped around his five-year-old sister while his foot gently rocked the stroller holding their baby sister.
Every few seconds, he checked on the other two children.
Counting them.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Making sure nobody disappeared.
His name was Mason.
His sisters were Grace, five, Evie, two, and June, ten months old.
Their brother Theo was three.
Five children.
All under seven.
And by the end of that afternoon, they might leave the courthouse in three different cars.
I knew that because three separate foster families had already been approved.
One family was willing to take Mason and Grace.
Another could take Theo and Evie.
The third had space for baby June.
Everyone kept using words like:
placement availability.
capacity.
transition planning.
sibling contact schedule.
Perfectly respectable language.
But every time I looked at Mason holding Grace’s hand, I translated all of it into something simpler.
They were going to split them up.
My name is Jonah Reed.
I was thirty years old.
Single.
No children.
No girlfriend.
No rich parents waiting to fund my decisions.
I owned a small woodworking business in Ashbourne, drove a six-year-old pickup truck, and lived in a three-bedroom farmhouse I had spent four years renovating myself.
Until three weeks earlier, the biggest thing I worried about was whether my business could afford another employee.
Now I was standing outside a courtroom asking the state to trust me with five traumatized children.
I understood why people thought I had lost my mind.
Some days, I wondered the same thing.
Then Mason bent down and whispered something to Theo.
Theo stopped crying.
And suddenly I knew exactly why I was there.
THREE WEEKS EARLIER
I was in my workshop when Elena Brooks called me.
Elena was a placement coordinator with the county family services department.
I had known her for almost two years because I was already a licensed foster parent.
That part surprised people later.
They assumed I woke up one morning, saw five children on a website, and decided to adopt them like puppies.
It wasn’t like that.
I had spent eighteen months getting licensed.
Background checks.
Classes.
Home inspections.
First-aid certification.
Financial disclosures.
Interviews that asked questions I had spent most of my adult life avoiding.
Why was I single?
Why did I want children?
What had my own childhood been like?
What kind of discipline did I believe in?
Who would help me if I became overwhelmed?
Did I understand that foster care was not supposed to exist to fulfill an adult’s need for a family?
I passed everything.
Then I waited.
For nearly a year, I never accepted a placement.
I told Elena I was waiting until I felt ready.
She told me nobody ever felt ready.
Then one Tuesday afternoon, she called.
“Jonah?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you at work?”
“I own the place, Elena. Unfortunately I’m always at work.”
She didn’t laugh.
That made me stop sanding.
“What happened?”
“There’s a sibling group.”
I looked toward the open workshop door.
“How many?”
She hesitated.
“Five.”
I actually thought she was joking.
“Five what?”
“Children.”
“Elena.”
“I know.”
“Ages?”
“Six, five, three, two, and ten months.”
I put the sander down.
“No.”
“I haven’t even asked you anything yet.”
“You’re going to ask whether I can take one.”
Silence.
That told me I was right.
I walked outside.
The late-afternoon air smelled like cut grass and cedar.
“Which one?”
“We’re still assessing.”
“Elena.”
“We have potential placements.”
“Together?”
Another silence.
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“How many homes?”
“Three.”
I stared across my yard.
My farmhouse stood beyond the workshop.
White siding.
Green roof.
Two empty bedrooms upstairs.
A half-finished room over the garage.
For years, I had told myself I bought too much house because the price was good.
That wasn’t true.
Somewhere inside me, I think I had always been building rooms for people who hadn’t arrived yet.
“Elena.”
“Yes?”
“What would it take to keep all five together?”
She sighed immediately.
“Jonah.”
“I asked what it would take.”
“You have three approved bedrooms.”
“I can convert my office.”
“Five young children require more than beds.”
“I know.”
“Transportation.”
“I have a truck.”
“You have a two-row pickup.”
“I’ll get something else.”
“Childcare.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Your business.”
“I own it.”
“Exactly. You have employees depending on you.”
I became irritated.
“Are you trying to talk me out of this?”
“Yes.”
That shut me up.
Elena continued.
“Because this cannot be about proving something.”
“I know.”
“You’re one person.”
“I know.”
“You have never parented a child for one night.”
“I know.”
“Five children this young can overwhelm two experienced parents.”
“I know.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
I looked toward the farmhouse again.
And said something I had never said to her.
“Because I know what happens after the cars drive away.”
She went quiet.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Jonah.”
“Just tell me whether there’s a process.”
There was.
A difficult one.
