Yellow Stuff Starts Dripping Down Your Bathroom Walls? Here’s What It Might Be

“Four siblings in urgent need of placement. Ages 3, 5, 7, and 9. Both parents deceased. No extended family able to care for all four. If no home is found, they will likely be separated into different adoptive families. We are urgently seeking someone willing to keep them together.”

“Likely be separated.”

That line hit like a punch.

I enlarged the image.

The oldest boy had an arm draped protectively around the girl beside him. The younger boy looked mid-motion, like he hadn’t been able to sit still for the shot. The smallest girl held a stuffed bear tight and pressed herself against her brother.

They didn’t seem optimistic.

They seemed prepared for impact.

I scrolled through the comments.

“So heartbreaking.”

“Shared.”

“Praying for them.”

Not a single person writing, “We’ll take them.”

I set my phone down.

Then picked it back up.

I knew the feeling of leaving a hospital with no one beside you.

Those children had already buried their parents.

And now the plan was to separate them, too.

I barely slept that night. Every time I shut my eyes, I pictured four kids sitting in some office, fingers intertwined, waiting to find out who was being taken away.

By morning, the post was still there. A phone number sat at the bottom. Before I could second-guess myself, I pressed call.

“Child Services, this is Karen,” a woman answered.

“Hi,” I said. “My name is Michael Ross. I saw the post about the four siblings. Are they still… needing a home?”

There was a pause.

“Yes,” she replied. “They are.”

“Can I come in and talk about them?”

She sounded caught off guard. “Of course. We can meet this afternoon.”

On the drive there, I kept repeating to myself, You’re just gathering information.

But deep down, I knew that wasn’t the truth.

In her office, Karen placed a folder in front of me.

“They’re good kids,” she said. “They’ve been through a lot.” She opened it. “Owen is nine. Tessa is seven. Cole is five. Ruby is three.”

I went over the names silently.

“Their parents died in a car accident,” Karen continued. “No extended family could take all four. They’re in temporary care now.”

“So what happens if no one takes all four?” I asked.

She let out a breath. “Then they’ll be placed separately. Most families can’t take that many children at once.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s what the system allows,” she said. “It’s not ideal.”

I kept my eyes on the file.

“I’ll take all four,” I said.

“All four?” Karen echoed.

“Yes. All four. I know there’s a process. I’m not asking you to hand them over tomorrow. But if the only reason you’re separating them is because no one wants four kids… I do.”

She met my gaze. “Why?”

“Because they’ve already lost their parents. They shouldn’t have to lose each other too.”

That answer led to months of evaluations and endless forms.

A counselor I was required to meet with asked, “How are you managing your grief?”

“Not well,” I admitted. “But I’m still standing.”

The first time I saw them in person, it was inside a visitation room with harsh lighting and mismatched chairs. The four of them sat crammed together on one couch, shoulders and knees pressed tight.

I took a seat opposite them.

“Hey, I’m Michael.”

Ruby buried her face in Owen’s shirt. Cole focused on my shoes. Tessa crossed her arms, chin lifted, all suspicion. Owen studied me like someone far older than nine.

“Are you the man who’s taking us?” he asked.

“If you want me to be.”

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