Thirteen years ago, I adopted my late husband’s secret twin daughters after his fatal car crash revealed his double life. I gave them everything, but at sixteen, they locked me out of my home. One week later, I discovered the shocking reason for their actions.
The morning Cort died began like any other. The sun was shining through my window, brightening everything in a gentle, golden glow that made even my worn countertops look almost gentle.
It was the last normal moment I’d have for a long, long time.
When the phone rang, I almost didn’t answer. Who calls at 7:30 in the morning? But some hunch made me pick up.
“Is this Nia?” A man’s voice, formal, hesitant.
“Speaking.” I took another sip of coffee, watching the steam rise.
“Ma’am, I’m Officer Vance with the Police Department. I’m sorry to inform you, but your husband was in an accident this morning. He didn’t survive.”
The mug slipped from my hand, smashing against the linoleum. Coffee splashed across my bare feet, but I barely felt it. “What? No, that’s… no… not my Cort!”
“Ma’am…” The officer’s voice softened. “There’s more you need to know. There was another woman in the car who also died… and two surviving daughters. Records confirm they’re Cort’s children.”
I slid down the kitchen cabinet until I hit the floor, barely feeling the coffee soaking into my robe.
The room spun as ten years of marriage smashed like my coffee mug. “Children?”
“Twin girls, ma’am. They’re three years old.”
Three years old. Three years of lies, of business trips and late meetings. Three years of another family hidden from me, just out of sight. The man had been living a whole other life while I’d been struggling through infertility treatments and the pain of two miscarriages.
“Ma’am? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure I was. Not really. “What… what happens to them now?”
“Their mother had no living relatives. They’re in emergency foster care until—”
I hung up. I couldn’t bear to hear more.
The funeral was a blur of black clothes and sorry looks. I stood there like a rock, accepting condolences from people who didn’t know whether to treat me like a grieving widow or a scorned woman.
But then I saw those two tiny figures in matching black dresses, holding hands so tightly their knuckles were pale. My husband’s secret daughters.
One had her thumb in her mouth. The other was picking at the hem of her dress. They looked so lost and alone. Despite the pain of Cort’s betrayal, my heart went out to them.
“Those poor things,” my mother, Maud, whispered beside me. “Their foster family couldn’t make it today. Can you imagine? No one here for them except the social worker.”
I watched as one twin stumbled, and her sister caught her without thinking, like they were two parts of the same person. Something in my chest opened up.
“I’ll take them,” I heard myself say.
Maud turned to me, shocked.
“Nia, honey, you can’t be serious. After what he did?”
“Look at them, Maud. They’re innocent in all this and they’re alone.”
“But—”
“I couldn’t have my own children. Maybe… maybe this is why.”
The adoption process was a battle of paperwork and questioning looks.
Why would I want my cheating husband’s secret children? Was I stable enough? Was this some form of revenge?
But I kept fighting, and eventually, Sloane and Tate became mine.
Those first years were a blend of healing and hurting. The girls were sweet but cautious, as if waiting for me to change my mind. I’d catch them talking quietly to each other late at night, making plans for “when she sends us away.”
It broke my heart every time.
“We’re having mac and cheese again?” seven-year-old Tate asked one night, her nose wrinkled.
“It’s what we can afford this week, sweetie,” I said, keeping my voice light. “But look—I put extra cheese on yours, just how you like it.”
Sloane, always the more sensitive one, must have heard something in my voice. She elbowed her sister.
“Mac and cheese is my favorite,” she announced, though I knew it wasn’t.
By the time they turned ten, I knew I had to tell them the truth. The whole truth.
I’d practiced the words a hundred times in front of my bathroom mirror, but sitting on my bed, watching their innocent faces, I felt like I might throw up.
“Girls,” I started, my hands shaking. “There’s something about your father and how you came to be my daughters that you need to know.”
They sat cross-legged on my faded quilt, mirror images of attention.
I told them everything about Cort’s double life, their birth mother, and that terrible morning I got the call. I told them how my heart broke when I saw them at the funeral and how I knew then that we were meant to be together.
The silence that followed felt endless. Tate’s face went pale, her freckles standing out like dots of paint. Sloane’s lower lip trembled.
“So… so Dad was a liar?” Tate’s voice cracked. “He was cheating on you?”
“And our real mom…” Sloane wrapped her arms around herself. “She died because of him?”
“It was an accident, sweetheart. A terrible accident.”
“But you…” Tate’s eyes narrowed, something hard and painful creeping into her young face. “You just took us? Like… like some kind of second choice?”
“No! I took you because—”
“Because you felt sorry for us?” Sloane interrupted, tears streaming now. “Because you couldn’t have your own kids?”
“I took you because I loved you the moment I saw you,” I reached for them, but they both pulled away. “You weren’t a second choice. You were a gift.”
“Liar!” Tate snapped, jumping off the bed. “Everyone’s a liar! Come on, Sloane!”
They ran to their room and slammed the door. I heard the lock click, followed by soft sobs and angry whispers.
The next few years were a struggle. Sometimes we’d have good days, with shopping trips or cozy movie nights on the sofa. But whenever they got angry, the stinging words came out.
“At least our real mom wanted us from the start!”
“Maybe she’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you!”
Each stinging word cut deep. But they were teens, so I dealt with their anger, hoping they’d understand someday.
Then came that terrible day shortly after the girls turned sixteen.
I came home from work, and my key wouldn’t turn in the lock. Then I spotted the harsh note taped to the door.
“We’re adults now. We need our own space. Go and live with Maud!” it read.
My suitcase sat by the door like a box holding all my dreams. Inside, I could hear movement, but no one answered my calls or pounding. I stood there for an hour before climbing back into my car.
At Maud’s house, I paced like a trapped animal.
“They’re acting out,” she said, watching me wear a track in her carpet. “Testing your love.”
“What if it’s more than that?” I stared at my silent phone. “What if they’ve decided I’m not worth it? That I’m just the woman who took them in out of pity?”
“Nia, you stop that right now.” Maud grabbed my shoulders.
“You’ve been their mother in every way that matters for thirteen years. They’re hurting, yes. They’re angry about things none of you can change. But they love you.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because they’re acting just like you did at sixteen.” She smiled sadly. “Remember when you ran away to Aunt Belle’s?”
I did. I’d been so angry about… something small. I’d lasted three days before homesickness brought me back.
Five more days dragged on.
I called in sick to work. I barely ate. Every time my phone buzzed, I grabbed it, only to be disappointed by another spam call or a text from a concerned friend.
Then, on the seventh day, I got the call I’d longed for.
“Mom?” Sloane’s voice was soft and small, like when she used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms. “Can you come home? Please?”
I drove back with my heart in my throat.
The last thing I expected when I rushed through the front door was to find my house changed. Fresh paint coated the walls, and the floors shone.
“Surprise!” The girls appeared from the kitchen, beaming like they used to when they were little.
“We’ve been planning this for weeks,” Tate explained, excited. “Working at the mall, babysitting, saving everything.”
“Sorry for the harsh note,” Sloane added shyly. “It was the only way we could think of to keep it a surprise.”
They led me to what used to be their nursery, now a beautiful home office. The walls were soft lavender, and there, by the window, hung a photo of the three of us on adoption day, all tear-filled and smiling.
“You gave us a family, Mom,” Sloane whispered, her eyes wet. “Even though you didn’t have to, even though we were a reminder of everything that hurt. You chose us anyway, and you’ve been the best mom ever.”
I pulled my girls close, breathing in the familiar smell of their shampoo, feeling their hearts beat against mine.
“You two are the best things that have ever happened to me. You gave me a reason to keep going. I love you more than you’ll ever know.”
“But we do know, Mom,” Tate said, her voice muffled against my shoulder. “We’ve always known.”
