That night, they refused separate rooms, so four beds were pushed together into a huge island of blankets. They fell asleep holding hands, full, warm, safe.
Ethan stood in the doorway and realized: he’d given them shelter for one night.
They’d given him a reason to live a little longer.
The next morning, while the girls ate breakfast, he called his lawyer, David Harper.
“I want to adopt four girls,” Ethan said. “My daughters.”
David listed the obstacles: terminal illness, no documents, the state’s likely decision to institutionalize them and split them up.
“I built everything I have by ignoring ‘impossible,’” Ethan replied. “Use my money. Use my name. I want to die knowing they’re safe.”
While David battled the system, Ethan learned his daughters.
Sophie, the rock, wrote “House Rules” in a notebook he gave her: No one sleeps alone. All candy is split in four. If Mr. Ethan coughs too much, call Grace. Take care of Bea.
June turned an empty room into a studio the second she found pencils and paper waiting. Her thank-you was a startlingly sensitive portrait of Ethan.
Lily became the house’s laughter. She found a framed photo of a smiling woman by a rosebush.
“Uncle Ethan, who’s this lady?”