Social services searched the entire airport.
No one claimed them.
The next day, I buried my child.
And after the prayers… after the silence… after everyone left…
I couldn’t stop thinking about those two tiny faces.
So I went to social services and told them I wanted to adopt them.
They checked everything—my background, my home, my neighbors. They asked if I was sure, at my age, in my grief.
I never hesitated.
Three months later, I adopted the twins.
I named them Ethan and Sophie.
They became my reason to keep breathing.
I poured everything I had into raising them. And they grew into remarkable young adults—kind, intelligent, compassionate.
Life felt whole again.
Until last week.

A sharp knock at the door changed everything.
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