“You’re not my real dad,” he shouted once.
“I know,” I said. “But it’s still no.”
Tessa hovered in doorways, watching me, ready to step in if she thought she had to. Owen tried to parent everyone and collapsed under the weight.
I burned dinner. I stepped on Legos. I hid in the bathroom just to breathe.
But it wasn’t all hard. Ruby fell asleep on my chest during movies. Cole brought me a crayon drawing of stick figures holding hands and said, “This is us. That’s you.”
Tessa slid me a school form and asked, “Can you sign this?” She’d written my last name after hers.
One night, Owen paused in my doorway. “Goodnight, Dad,” he said, then froze.
I acted like it was normal. “Goodnight, buddy,” I said. Inside, I was shaking.
About a year after the adoption was finalized, life looked normal in a messy way—school, homework, appointments, soccer, arguments over screen time.
Then one morning, after dropping them off, the doorbell rang. A woman in a dark suit stood on the porch, holding a leather briefcase.
“Good morning. Are you Michael? And you’re the adoptive father of Owen, Tessa, Cole, and Ruby?”
“Yes,” I said. “Are they okay?”
“They’re fine,” she said quickly. “I should’ve said that first. My name is Susan. I was the attorney for their biological parents.”
We sat at the kitchen table. She opened her briefcase and pulled out a folder.
“Before their deaths, their parents came to my office to make a will. They were healthy. Just planning ahead. In that will, they made provisions for the children. They also placed certain assets into a trust.”
“Assets?”
“A small house,” she said. “And some savings. Not huge, but meaningful. Legally, it all belongs to the children.”
My chest felt tight. “To them?”
