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THE CHILDREN’S SITUATION WAS COMPLICATED

Their mother had died suddenly.

Their father had not been an active part of their lives and was not considered a viable placement option.

There were no relatives who could safely take all five.

An aunt in another state had offered to take June.

A cousin offered temporary care for Mason.

But nobody could take the whole group.

Family services had tried.

That mattered.

Nobody wanted to separate them.

But wanting something and having capacity are different things.

Three foster homes had openings.

That was considered a good outcome.

Mason and Grace together.

Theo and Evie together.

June with a family experienced with infants.

The county would arrange sibling visits.

Weekly, if possible.

Maybe more.

Everyone assured me they would “maintain connection.”

I hated that phrase.

Connection.

As though five children who slept in the same rooms, ate the same breakfast, knew each other’s nightmares, and called for one another when frightened could simply convert siblinghood into Wednesday afternoon visitation.

Still, I understood the state’s position.

Five children were not a philosophical idea.

They were five doctor appointments.

Five sets of clothing.

Five different emotional needs.

Five bedtime routines.

Five people who might wake up screaming.

Five future school conferences.

Five college dreams if I was lucky enough to get them that far.

Love was not enough.

The judge needed evidence that I understood that.

So I hired an attorney.

Used most of my savings.

Temporarily reduced my business hours.

Promoted my foreman, Calvin, to operations manager.

And convinced my neighbor, seventy-year-old Mrs. Harper, to become part of my emergency support plan.

She looked at the paperwork and said:

“You understand I am not raising five children for you.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll bake cookies.”

“Excellent.”

“I will occasionally babysit.”

“Great.”

“If you start calling me Grandma without permission, I’m moving.”

“Understood.”

She signed.