Part 3: “I’ll Take All Four”
The woman who answered was named Denise Carter.
She listened quietly as I explained who I was, but when I said I wanted to adopt all four children, there was a long pause.
“Mr. Turner,” she said gently, “have you ever been a foster parent?”
“No.”
“Do you have experience caring for multiple children?”
“I was a father.”
Another pause.
Denise had read enough of my application to know about Rachel and Noah.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. “But four children with recent trauma will require more than love. They need stability, patience, training, counseling and a great deal of support.”
“I understand.”
“With respect, I don’t think anyone understands until they’re living it.”
She wasn’t trying to discourage me. She was protecting them.
So I attended orientation. I completed background checks, interviews and home inspections. I took parenting classes and trauma-informed care training.
I met with a therapist to make sure I wasn’t trying to replace my wife and son.
That question hurt, but it was fair.
“No one could replace them,” I told the therapist. “And I wouldn’t ask four grieving children to try.”
Three weeks later, Denise arranged my first meeting with the siblings.
They were staying in a temporary group home because no foster family nearby had space for all four.
When I entered the playroom, Emma immediately moved in front of the younger children.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“My name is Michael.”
“Are you taking one of us?”
The directness of her question stopped me.
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Then why are you here?”
“I’m hoping to get to know all of you.”
Liam stared at the floor. Ben rolled his truck back and forth. Sophie hid behind Emma’s leg.
I sat on the carpet several feet away.
I didn’t tell them everything would be okay. Adults had probably said that before their entire world fell apart.
Instead, I asked Ben about his truck.
He didn’t answer.
I asked Liam if he liked the superhero shirt he was wearing.
He shrugged.
I asked Emma what kind of books she read.
“I don’t read much.”
A book was open beside her.
I smiled slightly but didn’t point that out.
Then Sophie began crying.
“I want Mommy.”
Emma picked her up, though Sophie was almost too heavy for her.
I watched a nine-year-old child trying to become a mother because she believed no adult would stay long enough to do it.
Something inside me broke open.
I didn’t reach for Sophie. I didn’t tell Emma to put her down.
I simply said, “You’ve been taking care of everyone for a long time, haven’t you?”
Emma’s face changed.
For one brief second, she looked like a little girl instead of a guard standing at a gate.
The next day, I called Denise.
“I know the process takes time,” I said. “I know this will be difficult. But I want to move forward.”
“With which child?”
“All four.”
“Michael—”
“I’m not separating them. Please start the paperwork.”
