I should have said no.
I crouched down in front of them.
“Hi,” I said.
They looked at me with those huge dark eyes that had already learned too much.
I glanced up at the social worker. “Do they know?”
“Only that their parents are gone.”
I looked back at the boys. One had his fist twisted in his brother’s shirt. The other was trying to look brave and failing.
And I remember this awful, clear thought rising in me: None of this is their fault.
“Do they know?”
I swallowed hard. The decision didn’t feel difficult anymore. If anything, it felt like destiny.
“I’ll take them.”
The social worker blinked. “Ma’am, you don’t have to decide right now.”
“I already have. I can’t just walk away from them.”
Their names were Eli and Jonah.
They both had nightmares during those first few years. There would be nights I woke to the sound of quiet sobs, and fell asleep again holding their hands.
If anything, it felt like destiny.
Sometimes I would find them both on the floor beside my bed, blankets wrapped around them like armor.
No part of it was easy, and it only got harder when they started asking questions.
The twins were eight when Eli asked me, “What was our mom like?”
“She loved you,” I replied. That was the truth, or at least the piece of it I chose to believe.
