“I didn’t take them! They were on the dryer!” Lucas yelled back, sliding into the kitchen right behind him, holding up the bright red socks like a captured prize.
I set down my coffee mug, smiling as I looked at the two boys. They had grown so much over the last five years. The traumatized, quiet little five-year-olds who had lost their parents were now confident, happy, and thriving young boys. They excelled in soccer, laughed loudly, and filled every corner of our home with life and energy.
“Lucas, give your brother his socks,” I said with a gentle laugh, ruffling his messy brown hair. “And both of you sit down. Pancakes are almost ready.”
“Yes, Mom—I mean, Clara!” Lucas grinned, tossing the socks to his twin before hopping onto a counter stool.
Over the years, the boys sometimes slipped up and called me ‘Mom,’ then corrected themselves to ‘Clara.’ I never minded either one. To them, I was their sister, their guardian, and their protector all wrapped into one—and being their anchor was the greatest honor of my life.
