It was a Saturday, I am sure of that. There are other details that are still blurry in my mind. The summer sun was beating down, and I was thankful for air conditioning as we may our way across the state. The hum of the road underneath the wheels of our SUV couldn’t drown out my thoughts. Would I be a good mother to these kids? Could I possibly handle working and parenting? Would they be scarred from the neglect they have experienced from their own mother? I couldn’t know the answers. Not until they came. Not until they were living under my roof. There was lots of uncertainty.

As we crossed over from Tennessee into Arkansas, ready to meet up with the family member that was bringing them to us, I began to get excited. I imagined sunset evenings in the park, pushing swings, and catching flying children off slides. I envisioned Christmas morning with matching pajamas, and tiny feet running into my room to announce that Christmas had indeed arrived. Birthday parties, Lego castles, Play Dough animals, and skinned knees. Superheroes, training wheels, chicken nuggets, and sippy cups. This was going to be my life.

Once we reached our destination, they were taken out of the car and came over to greet us. All boys. Four years old, two years old, and one year old. I hugged him, certain that they had no idea what was happening in their life. I was an adult, and I wasn’t certain. I packed their bags and car seats into my vehicle, and we buckled everyone in. And just like that, I became a mother.