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?”
