Rachel had been my best friend forever — from sitting side-by-side in school to sharing college apartments and later juggling kids and carpools. I had two children; she had four. Rachel adored being a mom, or so I thought.
After a hard pregnancy and the birth of her fourth child, her husband died in a car accident. Not long after, Rachel was diagnosed with cancer. As she worsened, she asked me to promise I’d take her children so they wouldn’t be split up. With no relatives willing to help, my husband and I adopted all four, becoming parents of six. Over time, the kids bonded and our family felt whole again.
Years later, an unfamiliar woman showed up at my door claiming Rachel “wasn’t who she said she was” and gave me a letter from her. As I read it, my breath caught: one of Rachel’s children wasn’t biologically hers — and the woman now wanted her back. I refused. The woman insisted, saying adoption papers were flawed, but I stood firm: these children were my family.
A year later, a court confirmed that the adoption couldn’t be undone. Becca was legally and truly mine. I walked out knowing our family was safe.