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 shone through my window, casting a gentle golden glow that even made my worn countertops look soft and warm.
It was the last normal moment I would 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 instinct made me pick up.
“Is this Nia?” a man’s voice asked, formal and 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 and smashed 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 noticing the coffee soaking into my robe.
The room spun as ten years of marriage shattered like my coffee mug. “Children?”
“Twin girls, ma’am. They’re three years old.”
Three years old. Three years of lies, business trips, and late meetings. Three years of another family hidden from me while I endured infertility treatments and two miscarriages.
“Ma’am? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure I was. “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 sympathetic looks. I stood like a rock, accepting condolences from people unsure whether to treat me like a grieving widow or a betrayed woman.
Then I saw them—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 fiddled with the hem of her dress. They looked so lost and alone. Despite 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. No one here for them except the social worker.”
I watched one twin stumble, and her sister caught her instinctively, like they were two halves of the same person. Something inside me opened up.
“I’ll take them,” I said before I even realized it.
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 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 fought, 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 would catch them whispering at night, planning “for when she sends us away.” It broke my heart.
“We’re having mac and cheese again?” seven-year-old Tate asked one night, nose wrinkled.
“It’s what we can afford this week, sweetie,” I said lightly. “But I put extra cheese on yours, just how you like it.”
Sloane, always more sensitive, 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 the mirror, but sitting on my bed, watching their innocent faces, I felt sick.
“Girls,” I started, 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 we were meant to be together.
The silence that followed felt endless. Tate’s face went pale, freckles standing out like dots of paint. Sloane’s lower lip trembled.
“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. “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. “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 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, slammed the door, and 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, but when they got angry, the words cut deep.
“At least our real mom wanted us from the start!”
“Maybe she’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you!”
Each word stung, but they were teens, so I endured their anger, hoping they’d understand someday.
Then came the day shortly after they turned sixteen.
I came home from work, and my key wouldn’t turn in the lock. A harsh note was taped to the door:
“We’re adults now. We need our own space. Go and live with Maud!”
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 driving to Maud’s house.
“They’re acting out,” she said, watching me pace. “Testing your love.”
“What if it’s more than that?” I asked. “What if they’ve decided I’m not worth it? That I’m just the woman who took them in out of pity?”
“Nia, stop that. You’ve been their mother in every way that matters for thirteen years. They’re hurting and angry, 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 angry about something small and lasted three days before homesickness brought me back.
Five more days dragged on. I called in sick to work. I barely ate. Every phone buzz made my heart leap, only to be disappointed.
Then, on the seventh day, I got the call I’d been waiting for.
“Mom?” Sloane’s voice was soft, 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 was a transformed house. Fresh paint coated the walls, and the floors shone.
“Surprise!” The girls appeared from the kitchen, beaming.
“We’ve been planning this for weeks,” Tate explained. “Working at the mall, babysitting, saving everything.”
“Sorry for the harsh note,” Sloane added shyly. “It was the only way we could make a surprise.”
They led me to what used to be their nursery, now a beautiful home office. Lavender walls, a photo of the three of us on adoption day hung by the window.
“You gave us a family, Mom,” Sloane whispered, 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 their familiar scent, 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, muffled against my shoulder. “We’ve always known.”