We spent evenings on the couch filling out forms, preparing for home studies. He was relentless, focused in a way that felt almost urgent.

One night, he found their profile.

“Four-year-old twins, Matthew and William. Don’t they look like they belong here?”

“They look scared,” I said softly.

He squeezed my hand. “Maybe we could be enough for them.”

“I want to try.”

He emailed the agency that same night.

The first time we met the boys, I kept glancing at Joshua.

He crouched down to Matthew’s level and held out a dinosaur sticker.

“Is this your favorite?” he asked.

Matthew barely nodded, eyes fixed on his brother.

William whispered, “He talks for the both of us.”

Then he looked at me, as if measuring whether I was safe. I knelt beside them and said, “That’s okay. I talk a lot for Joshua.”

My husband laughed—real, light, happy. “She’s not kidding, bud.”

Matthew gave a small smile. William leaned closer to him.

The day they moved in, the house felt bright and uncertain. Joshua knelt by the car and promised, “We’ve got matching pajamas for you.”

That night, the boys turned the bathroom into a swamp, and for the first time in years, laughter filled every corner of the house.

For three weeks, we lived inside something that felt like borrowed magic—bedtime stories, pancake dinners, LEGO towers, and two little boys slowly learning to reach for us.

About a week after they arrived, I sat on the edge of their beds in the dark, listening to their slow breathing. They still called me “Miss Hanna,” but they were beginning to stay close.

That day had ended with William crying over a lost toy and Matthew refusing dinner.

As I tucked the blankets under their chins, Matthew’s eyes opened.

“Are you coming back in the morning?” he whispered.

My chest tightened. “Always, sweetheart. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

William rolled toward me, clutching his stuffed bear, and for the first time, he reached for my hand.

But Joshua started drifting.

At first, it was subtle. He came home later than usual.

“Tough day at work, Hanna,” he’d say, avoiding my eyes.

He’d eat with us, smile at the boys, then disappear into his office before dessert. I found myself cleaning up alone, wiping sticky fingerprints off the fridge, listening to the low murmur of his phone calls behind a closed door.

When Matthew spilled juice and William dissolved into tears, I was the one kneeling on the kitchen floor, whispering, “It’s okay, sweetie. I’ve got you.”

Joshua was gone—“work emergency,” he’d say—or absorbed in the blue glow of his laptop.

One night, after another long evening and too many peas scattered under the table, I finally asked, “Josh, are you okay?”

He barely looked up. “Just tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Are you… happy?”

He shut the laptop a little too hard. “Hanna, you know I am. We wanted this, right?”

I nodded, but something inside me twisted.

Then one afternoon, the boys napped at the same time. I crept down the hall, desperate for a moment to breathe. As I passed Joshua’s office, I heard his voice—low, strained.

“I can’t keep lying to her. She thinks I wanted a family with her…”

My hand flew to my mouth.

I moved closer, heart pounding.

“But I didn’t adopt the boys because of this,” he said, his voice breaking.

Silence. Then a rough sob.

“I can’t do this, Dr. Samson. I can’t watch her figure it out after I’m gone. She deserves more than that. But if I tell her… she’ll fall apart. She gave up her whole life for this. I just… I just wanted to know she wouldn’t be alone.”

My legs went weak.

Joshua was crying. “How long did you say, Doc?”