As I watched my three sons, Andrew, then 13, and twins, Martin and Victor, 16, playing happily in the sea, splashing each other, my husband Jay, 52, and I smiled in mutual acknowledgement that we were incredibly lucky to have such lovely boys who got along so well.
It was all we could have wanted, especially considering we didn’t all share the same blood. The twins had not long joined our family after we’d adopted them and, considering the tough start they’d had in life, naturally Jay and I had been worried about how they’d settle. But seeing how happy they were, we felt like the luckiest parents in the world.
We first met the twins at our local church youth group, where Jay and I volunteered. We’d make pizzas with the kids, play games and have singalongs. Andrew, my son from a previous relationship, loved joining Jay and I, and playing with the other kids. In August 2012, the twins, aged 15, joined the group and they were so kind and intelligent, and always had the biggest smiles on their faces whenever we played games – as though they’d never had fun like it.
As we got to know the boys more, they opened up to us about their lives. We learnt that, aged two, they’d been removed from a troubled home and adopted. Only their new home was even more chaotic and it was obvious they were not receiving the care they deserved.
‘Their clothes are dishevelled, and they always seem to be hungry,’ I said to Jay after dropping them back home one Sunday after the youth group.
This story is from the March 16, 2021 edition of WOMAN'S OWN.
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This story is from the March 16, 2021 edition of WOMAN'S OWN.
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