Two years after losing my wife and six-year-old son in a car accident, I existed more than I lived. Grief hollowed out the days until they blurred together—work, takeout, sleepless nights on the couch, the TV murmuring to no one. People told me I was strong, but strength had nothing to do with it. I was just still breathing. Our house felt wrong, like a place that had forgotten its purpose. My wife’s mug sat untouched by the coffee maker. My son’s sneakers waited by the door. I avoided our bedroom and learned how quiet a life could become when the people who gave it meaning were suddenly gone.

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One night, long past midnight, I was scrolling through Facebook when a local news post stopped me cold. It showed four siblings—small, pressed together on a bench—about to be separated by the foster system. Their parents were gone. No family could take them all. If no one stepped forward, they would be placed in different homes. That single line—likely to be separated—hit harder than anything I’d read in two years. I studied their faces, the way the oldest leaned protectively toward the others, the way they looked like they were bracing for another loss. I knew what it meant to walk away alone after a hospital hallway goodbye. By morning, I was calling Child Services, telling myself I was only asking questions, even though I already knew the truth.

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