The day my parents arrived with a moving truck was supposed to be about my children. Instead, it became the day I finally understood what my family had been trying to take from me. Hazel and Elias were only weeks away from coming home permanently, and I had spent months preparing their rooms, choosing furniture, and making sure they knew they were wanted. My parents had always treated my decision to adopt them as temporary madness, something they could eventually talk me out of.

That morning, my mother walked through the house criticizing everything. She said the children needed “a more suitable environment” and told my sister Danielle and Craig to start emptying the bedrooms. I stood frozen as boxes appeared in the hallway. My father refused to meet my eyes. Danielle smiled as though the house had already become hers.

Then the doorbell rang.

Bernadette, the county social worker assigned to the final adoption visit, stood outside holding a folder. She had arrived to determine whether my home was ready for Hazel and Elias. My mother immediately stepped forward, insisting everything was perfectly fine.

Bernadette looked past her at the boxes, then at me.

“Before we continue,” she said, “I need to know exactly what is happening here.”