I’m Michael Ross, 40. Two years ago, my wife Lauren and our six-year-old son were killed by a drunk driver. After that, I wasn’t strong—I was just still breathing. I slept on the couch, went to work, came home, and existed in a house full of ghosts.
About a year later, scrolling Facebook at 2 a.m., I saw a post about four siblings—ages 3, 5, 7, and 9—whose parents had died. No one would take all four, so they were about to be separated. That line hit hard. They’d already lost their parents. Losing each other felt cruel.
The next morning, I called Child Services. By afternoon, I was sitting in an office being told separation was “what the system allows.” I said, “I’ll take all four.”
Months of paperwork followed. When I met them, they sat pressed together like they were bracing. I promised I wouldn’t change my mind—and that I always had snacks.
Bringing them home was hard. Nights full of tears, testing limits, exhaustion. But slowly, the house came alive again. One night, the oldest whispered, “Goodnight, Dad,” and I barely held it together.
A year after the adoption, a woman knocked on my door. She was the children’s biological parents’ attorney. Before they died, their parents had made a will—leaving a small house and savings to the kids and stating one clear wish: their children must never be separated.
Without knowing it, I had done exactly what their parents asked.
That weekend, I took the kids to see their old house. They remembered everything—the swing, the height marks on the wall, burned pancakes on Saturdays. When they asked if we had to move, I told them no. We’d decide together, someday.
That night, back home, I sat on the couch thinking about loss. I still miss my wife and son every day.
But now there are four toothbrushes in the bathroom, four backpacks by the door—and the house no longer echoes.