Two years after losing my wife Apex and our six-year-old son Kitt in a car accident, I was barely functioning. Then one late night, a Facebook post about four siblings facing separation by the foster system changed my life.
I’m Volt, 40, American. Two years ago, everything ended in a hospital hallway when a doctor said, “I’m so sorry.” A drunk driver had struck their car. They went quickly, he added, as if that eased the pain.
After the funeral, the house felt hollow. Apex’s mug sat by the coffee maker. Kitt’s sneakers waited by the door. His drawings remained on the fridge.
I stopped sleeping in our bedroom. I crashed on the couch with the TV running all night. Work, takeout, staring into space—that was my existence.
People called me strong. I wasn’t. I was just still breathing.
About a year after the accident, at 2 a.m. on the couch, I scrolled Facebook. Amid politics and pet videos, a local news share appeared.
“Four siblings need a home.”
The photo showed four kids huddled on a bench: the oldest boy with his arm around the next girl, the younger boy caught mid-motion, the little girl clutching a stuffed bear and leaning into her brother.
The caption: Four siblings urgently need placement. Ages 3, 5, 7, and 9. Both parents deceased. No extended family can take all four. Without one home, they will likely be separated. Seeking someone to keep them together.
That line struck deep—they’d already lost their parents. Now the system threatened to split them too.
Comments filled with sadness and prayers, but no offers to take them.
I set the phone down, then picked it up again. I knew the emptiness of leaving a hospital alone.
I barely slept. Images of four kids in an office, holding hands while hearing who was leaving, haunted me.
In the morning, I called the number.
“Child Services, this is Saffron.”
“Hi, I’m Volt Hayes. I saw the post about the four siblings. Are they still needing a home?”
She paused. “Yes, they are.”
“Can I come in to talk about them?”
She sounded surprised but scheduled an afternoon meeting.
On the drive, I told myself I was just asking questions. Deep down, I knew better.
In her office, Saffron opened a file. “They’re good kids who’ve endured a lot. Rant is nine, Sol is seven, Nox is five, Reese is three.”
Their parents died in a car accident. No family could take all four. They were in temporary care.
“What happens if no one takes all four?” I asked.
“Then separate placements,” she said. “Few families can handle four at once. It’s not ideal, but it’s what the system allows.”
I stared at the file.
“I’ll take all four,” I said.
“All four?” Saffron repeated.
“Yes. I know there’s a process—checks, visits, time. But if the only barrier is no one wanting four kids… I do.”
She met my eyes. “Why?”
“Because they’ve lost their parents. They shouldn’t lose each other too.”
That launched months of home studies, background checks, paperwork, and therapy.
The therapist asked, “How are you handling your grief?”
“Badly,” I said. “But I’m still here.”
The first meeting with the kids was in a stark visitation room. All four sat squeezed on one couch, touching shoulders.
I sat across. “Hey, I’m Volt.”
Reese hid her face in Rant’s shirt. Nox stared at my shoes. Sol folded her arms, wary. Rant watched me steadily.
“Are you the man taking us?” he asked.
“If you want me to be.”
“All of us?” Sol pressed.
“Yeah. All of you. I’m not picking just one.”
Her mouth twitched. “What if you change your mind?”
“I won’t. You’ve had enough of that.”
Reese peeked out. “Do you have snacks?”
I smiled. “Always.”
Saffron laughed softly behind me.
The house slowly filled with life again.
Court followed. The judge asked if I understood the full legal and financial responsibility for four minors.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. Terrified, but certain.
Moving-in day: four pairs of shoes by the door, four backpacks in a heap.
Early weeks were hard. Reese cried for her mom nightly; I’d sit by her bed until she slept. Nox tested every rule. “You’re not my real dad,” he shouted once.
“I know,” I said. “But it’s still no.”
Sol watched from doorways, protective. Rant tried parenting the others and wore himself out.
I burned dinners, stepped on toys, stepped away to breathe in the bathroom.
But good moments emerged. Reese fell asleep on my chest during movies. Nox drew stick figures holding hands: “This is us. That’s you.”
Sol handed me a school form with my last name after hers.
One night, Rant paused in my doorway. “Goodnight, Dad,” he said, then froze.
I kept it casual. “Goodnight, buddy.”
Inside, I trembled.
About a year after adoption finalized, life was messy but normal: school runs, homework, soccer, screen-time battles.
One morning, after drop-off, the doorbell rang. A woman in a suit stood with a briefcase. “Are you Volt Hayes, adoptive father of Rant, Sol, Nox, and Reese?”
“Yes. Are they okay?”
“They’re fine. I’m Neve, attorney for their biological parents.”
We sat at the kitchen table amid cereal bowls and crayons.
She pulled a folder. “Before their deaths, the parents made a will and trust for the children—a small house and savings. It belongs to them. You’re guardian and trustee; use it for their needs, but it’s theirs as adults.”
I exhaled. “That’s good.”
“More importantly,” she said, turning a page, “they explicitly stated they did not want the children separated. They wrote: if they couldn’t raise them, keep them together in one home with one guardian.”
My eyes stung. While the system readied to split them, their parents had already demanded: Don’t separate our kids.
“Where’s the house?” I asked.
She gave the address—across town.
That weekend, I loaded the four into the car. “We’re going somewhere important.”
“Is it the zoo?” Reese asked.
“There might be ice cream after if everyone behaves.”
We pulled up to a small beige bungalow with a maple tree.
The car fell silent.
“I know this house,” Sol whispered.
“This was our house,” Rant said.
They nodded.
Inside, empty but familiar. Reese ran to the back door. “The swing is still there!”
Nox pointed to wall marks. “Mom measured our heights here.”
Sol stood in a bedroom. “My bed was there. Purple curtains.”
Rant touched the kitchen counter. “Dad burned pancakes every Saturday.”
Rant returned to me. “Why are we here?”
I crouched. “Because your mom and dad took care of you. They put this house and money in your names—for your future. They planned ahead and wrote they wanted you together. Always together.”
“Even though they’re gone?” Sol asked.
“Yeah. Even though.”
“Do we have to move here?” Rant asked. “I like our house. With you.”
“No,” I said. “We don’t have to decide now. This house isn’t going anywhere. We’ll figure it out together when you’re older.”
Reese climbed into my lap, arms around my neck.
“Can we still get ice cream?” Nox asked.
I laughed. “Definitely.”
That night, after they slept in our crowded home, I sat on the couch reflecting on life’s strangeness. I lost Apex and Kitt. I’ll miss them every day.
But now four toothbrushes line the sink. Four backpacks wait by the door. Four kids yell “Dad!” when I bring pizza.
I didn’t adopt them for a house or inheritance—I didn’t know any existed. I did it because four siblings were about to lose each other.
The rest was their parents’ final thank-you for keeping them together.
I’m not their first dad. But I’m the one who saw a late-night post and said, “All four.”
And now, when they pile on during movie night, stealing popcorn and talking over the film, I think: This is what their parents wanted. Us. Together.