I’m Michael Ross. Two years ago, my wife, Lauren, and our six-year-old son, Caleb, died in a car accident. Life became just work, takeout, and sleeping on the couch—the bedroom too painful to enter.
One night, I saw a post from child services: four siblings, ages 3, 5, 7, and 9, were about to be separated. Their parents had died, and no one would take all four together. My chest tightened.
I called. “I’ll take all four,” I said. And so began months of paperwork, therapy, and adjustment. Ruby cried for her mom almost every night. Owen tried to parent everyone. Tessa watched my every move. Cole tested every rule.
Over time, the house filled with noise, chaos, and laughter. They began to trust me. I became Dad on their terms.
A year later, a woman appeared on my porch. Susan, the attorney for their biological parents, handed me a folder: a will, a trust, a small house—all set aside for the children.
“They didn’t want you to separate them,” she said.
The kids and I drove across town to see the house. Their old home. Their swing, the faded pencil marks, the kitchen counters. They remembered it all.
“Even though they’re gone?” Owen asked.
“Yes,” I said. “They planned for you. Always together.”
I will miss my wife and Caleb every day. But now there are four backpacks by the door, four toothbrushes in the bathroom, and a house waiting for four children who survived too much—but stayed together, just as their parents wanted.