“A Bed, A Brother, A Sister — And A Chance to Stay Together”
We got the call on May 17.
“Can you take two children? Ages seven and eleven. Just for a few days—until we can find something more permanent.”
We had space. But we didn’t have beds. The boys’ room had a set of bunk beds bolted together, and we needed two separate beds—for a boy and a girl. So we said yes to the seven-year-old boy. Regretfully, we said we couldn’t take the girl.
At 7 p.m., the CPS car pulled into our driveway. I walked down to greet this little boy—scared, hurting, alone. But in the front seat was someone else. A beautiful young girl, face streaked with tears, staring out the window like her heart had broken into pieces too big for a child to hold.
In that moment, something shifted inside me.
I remembered what it felt like to be small, confused, and at the mercy of life’s choices. I wanted to reach through the glass and hug her. But I didn’t even have a bed for her.
The CPS worker warned me: the little boy was terrified. He had been crawling over seats, pressing buttons, screaming, refusing to come out of the car. For forty minutes, he thrashed and ran down the street. When we finally got him inside, he was still fighting—hitting, screaming, throwing things.
I was scared. I asked myself, “What am I doing? What did I sign up for? Am I safe? Is this my calling?”
And then I answered myself:
“Candace, this little boy needs you.”
Even with my own three-year-old and eight-month-old at home, I knew—we had room. In our house and in our hearts.
Still, the girl couldn’t stay. Her placement was over two hours away. As they tried to calm the boy, she gently helped him, comforting him, even while her own eyes brimmed with tears. That’s when I looked at the bunk beds and said,
“Wait. What if… we cut them apart?”
The CPS worker blinked. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” I said. “They need to be together. It’s just a few days. But let’s give them that.”
And so, my husband and the CPS agent grabbed tools and unbolted the bunk beds. That night, those two siblings—still shaken, still scared—were together. And when that little boy looked at me and said,
“Thank you,”
and wrapped his arms around me,
my heart cracked open.
A few nights later, I got the call.
“They found a long-term placement,” they said.
“But the kids will be separated.”
I couldn’t breathe. I’d seen that little boy in his most vulnerable moment, unraveling with fear and fury.
“No,” I said. “They can’t be split up.”
“Are you sure?” the voice on the phone asked.
I said, “Yes. Please. Let them stay.”
That was the beginning of something we didn’t expect.
A week passed. Then two. We slowly found our rhythm—me, my husband, our two little ones, and now, a seven-year-old and an eleven-year-old whose world had just fallen apart. And somehow, we built something whole again.
It hasn’t been easy. It’s been messy and emotional and exhausting. But it’s been right.
They’ve told us this is the best foster home they’ve ever had. They say “I love you” every day. They laugh now. They sleep soundly. They trust. That alone is a miracle.
And here’s the most beautiful part:
We’ve been co-parenting with their birth mother.
She’s working hard, every single day, to bring her babies home. And I believe in her. I truly do. She tells me often, “You’re like a second mom to them. I’m so thankful for you.”
You don’t always hear that—from a mother who had to let go, even temporarily. But we’re not here to take her place. We’re here to bridge the gap. To love, support, and believe in reunification when it’s possible—and right.
One day, these children will go home. And when they do, a piece of my heart will go with them.
Because love like this doesn’t disappear—it just moves.
This story? It’s messy. Raw. Real.
But above all—this story is a happy one. ❤️🏡
— Candace, via Humans of Foster Care
