In August 2015, my husband made a choice that changed everything: he admitted he wasn’t happy and, instead of working on our marriage, he walked away. By February 2016, our divorce was finalized. But in reality, he had left six months earlier, and by then, I had slowly come to terms with the end of our marriage. At that point, I felt a profound sense of loss—not just for the life I thought I’d have with him, but for the dream I’d quietly cherished for years: becoming a mother. I realized I was too old to start over and have children on my own, and I reluctantly let that dream go.
During that difficult time, I tried to rebuild myself in small ways. I joined BYOB paint classes, spent time with a close friend who was navigating her own divorce, and volunteered as a reading buddy for second graders. I focused on finding my footing again, trying to discover a new sense of purpose while grappling with grief and loss.
Then, about six weeks after the divorce, an unexpected message arrived—a text from my cousin asking if I might consider adopting her children. She had one son living with our aunt, another son in foster care, and was expecting a baby girl. My aunt, then in her late 60s, was already raising her grandson, who was in therapy, and she couldn’t take on more children. The timing seemed impossible, but family is family, and I couldn’t bear the thought of two young cousins ending up with strangers.
I grew up valuing the stability of our extended family, which had been a grounding force in a childhood marked by frequent moves. I knew it would weigh heavily on my aunt not to have a role in these children’s lives. I discussed the possibility with my parents, making sure I wasn’t overstepping. My dad worried my cousin might change her mind, while my mom encouraged me to move into the house across the street from her. When I spoke with my aunt, she cried in gratitude. It wasn’t ideal timing, but it felt undeniably right.
My mom, understanding my deep desire for children and my need to start over, welcomed me into her home. She and my dad had separated a year prior, and when she bought her house, she had also purchased the one directly across the street. She was ready to help in any way I needed, fully on board with this unexpected journey.
By Christmas 2016, after months of waiting and navigating the long process of foster licensing and care transfers, I had nearly given up hope of getting the children. But I kept the faith in small ways—I decorated my house, put up a Christmas tree, and wrapped gifts, just in case. Then, two days before Christmas Eve, my phone rang just after 8 a.m. It was the caseworker. “The fax was waiting for me when I came in. Everything is approved. When can you come get them?”
I froze in the hallway for a moment, overwhelmed with disbelief and excitement. “Let me throw my bag in the car and pick up my aunt—we’ll be there tonight.” It was a ten-hour drive each way, but by the time we returned home, it was just past midnight on Christmas Eve. It was, without a doubt, the best Christmas gift I could ever imagine.
Bringing home a seven-month-old baby girl and a nearly two-year-old boy was exhilarating and exhausting all at once. Isaak, the little boy, needed speech therapy and still had issues with food hoarding. At two years old, he could only say three words, and I had to watch him constantly to prevent him from overstuffing himself. Kaylee, his baby sister, was delightfully easygoing, rarely crying, but managing both of them was essentially like caring for two babies at once. It pushed me to my limits.
I quickly realized that my patience wasn’t what it had been in my younger years. I had to reflect on my expectations, pick my battles, and learn to roll with the punches. Isaak carried trauma-informed baggage, which required me to be gentle, consistent, and flexible. Today, Isaak is my sweet cuddle bug, while Kaylee embodies pure sass and charm.
Both children adapted remarkably well to a new home. My mom immediately took to Isaak, saying, “He needs to be someone’s favorite,” while my Aunt Martha naturally claimed Kaylee. But the early days were not without struggle. I remember crying on my bed after a two-hour bedtime battle with Isaak, doubting myself and wondering if I could truly do this. My mom reassured me, “You’ve done a great job with them. You’re a good mom.” That validation, coming from someone I admired deeply, meant the world to me.
Tragically, my aunt and mom had limited time to enjoy the children. Aunt Martha suffered from liver failure, and my mom was diagnosed with brain and lung cancer. I did everything I could to create a sense of normalcy for the kids during my mom’s home hospice care. I watched as Isaak pushed her in her wheelchair and they picked flowers for her, trying to shield them from the weight of loss. Less than four weeks after her diagnosis, my mom passed. The next day, my aunt entered the hospital and passed away just ten days later.
Even now, milestones like first teeth, learning to ride a bike, or writing their names bring bittersweet memories of the women who loved them so dearly. I tell the children that their bodies stopped working but their souls went to heaven, where they are no longer in pain. They often ask about Gammy and Aunt Martha, and looking through old photo albums helps them feel connected to these legacies.
Adoption came with financial challenges, but the generosity of family friends ensured the children’s security. In late January 2020, I signed the adoption papers, finally making it official. Neither birth parent contested, and the judge approved. I explained to Isaak and Kaylee that their birth mother had carried them in her tummy but could not care for them—and that I had wanted them with all my heart. I became their mom in every sense.
When the adoption was finalized, I wept in relief, knowing they were truly safe and loved. We celebrated by visiting a playground, and I changed their last names to mine—a small but meaningful way to connect our family line. Today, Isaak and Kaylee are thriving. Isaak loves building with Lego, Kaylee loves reading books, and both enjoy adventures with their cousins. I’m grateful for a support system that allows me, as a 49-year-old single mom, to give them a childhood full of love and stability.
I remember a moment when Isaak, then about three, said as we turned the corner coming home from church, “Home.” I smiled at him. “Yeah, buddy, that’s home.” He looked up and said, “My home.” And in that instant, I knew he truly felt it—and I promised myself it always would be.
