“I can’t raise them alone,” she whispered. “And if something happens to me… promise me you’ll take care of them. Please.”
I nodded. What else could I do?
She smiled, relieved, and an hour later delivered two tiny girls, Nika and Angela. By morning, she was gone.
My coworkers said the babies would go to the state. That night, I sat at my kitchen table, haunted by the memory of a dying girl’s hand on my wrist. Two weeks later, I began the adoption paperwork.
It wasn’t easy, but it was the best decision I ever made. I never built another family. The girls were the only family I ever chose.
For illustrative purposes only
Years later, standing in the rain outside the house they had bought together—the house they had invited me into because they said they wanted to take care of me—I tried to explain.
“I was scared,” I told them.
“Scared,” Nika repeated, her laugh brittle. “You let us grow up believing our father never wanted us.”
“I didn’t even know he existed until that letter arrived,” I said, my voice breaking. “Your mother never told me anything about him. She was dying, Nika. She grabbed my hand and asked me to take care of you. That’s all I had.”
“But you got the letter, Jessie,” Angela said, pointedly using my name instead of “Mom.” “And you said nothing.”
