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.
They inspected my home.
They examined my finances.
They spoke with my neighbors.
They ran background checks and conducted interviews.
Again and again, they asked the same question.
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