She listened carefully.
Then she asked me where I lived.
I gave a small, tired smile.
“Anyone can find my house,” I said. “It’s the bright yellow one with the oak tree growing right through the porch.”
When the plane finally landed, I carried the babies with me to airport security.
The staff immediately contacted social services.
They searched the entire airport.
They checked every passenger list, every security camera, every possible lead.
But no one came forward.
No one claimed the twins.
The next day, after I buried my daughter and grandson, I returned home to my quiet little yellow house.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about the babies.
Their red, tear-streaked faces.
The way the boy had clung to my shoulder.
The way the little girl had gripped my sweater as if letting go would mean disappearing.
So the following morning, I drove straight to the social services office.
And I asked them if I could adopt them.
The process was not simple.
