She remembered what she used to be like, and it was nothing like she was now. Lying in her hospice bed, her bones heavy against the thin mattress, she glanced over at Janis. Curled on the couch, soft snores drifted beneath the gentle rustle of pages, the worn paperback threaten to slip from her grasp. The lamp’s warm glow bathed them both, casting soft amber shadows on the walls, a thin bubble of light holding back the dim edges of the room.
Seventy-five years. A lifetime together. She had never met another queer couple who had shared so much time. They weren’t lucky—no, not lucky. Lucky implied chance. They had worked for this. Even though neither of them had the best childhoods, they had built the kind of home they always dreamed of.
Over the years, they’d helped so many children find the love they themselves had needed. There had been moves, planning, saving, countless hours of discussion and paperwork. They were committed to do whatever needed to be done to help these children have the best chance of success. Through sleepless nights and boundless love, they had held on, hand in hand, refusing to let the world pull these children’s lives apart.
As she thought back on the memories of the past her eyes grew heavy, the hum of the room melting into the slow, gentle rhythm of her heartbeat. Each thump seemed to draw her deeper, unraveling the present and letting memory rush in like a tide.
She could feel the edges of the world softening, as if the house itself was urging her to rest, to let go with the same gentleness they had shown every child who came through their door. Memories swept in carrying her back to the start of their story—the first glance, the first touch, the first moment when the world had shifted beneath her feet.
The First Spark
They met in college, back when the world was less forgiving. She had been studying social work, determined to make a difference for kids like her, while her soon-to-be wife pursued a degree in special education. The first time she saw her, they were in a crowded general education class, the kind where the professor barely glanced up from their notes.
Her soon-to-be wife stood at the front of the room, shoulders squared, her knuckles pale against the wooden edge of the podium as her voice rose above the low hum of shuffling papers and half-hearted whispers. She was challenging the professor, demanding accommodations so that every student could participate equally. The room had gone still, the weight of her words settling over them. The professor’s dismissive response did nothing to deter her. Instead, her resolve only seemed to sharpen, a quiet defiance woven into every word.
After class, while others slipped out through the back doors, she found herself moving forward, weaving through desks and backpacks to catch up to her. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, but the feeling in her chest told her this was important. She introduced herself, expressing her admiration for how bravely she had stood up to “the man.” The words had been meant as a joke, a thin veil of humor over a deeper truth.
Her soon-to-be wife’s name was Janis, a nod to both Janis Joplin and Janis Ian. The moment she introduced herself to Janis, she felt a quiet thrill—a shared love of music layering itself over the spark of admiration she already felt. It seemed fitting that someone with a name echoing such powerful voices would find her own and use it so boldly.
Janis had smiled then, a gentle, genuine expression that softened the remnants of her earlier frustration. What had struck her most wasn’t just the courage to speak up, but the quiet certainty beneath it—a sense that doing what was right was simply a given. They lingered in the empty classroom, talking as if the world had folded away, leaving only the two of them.
That moment became the first of many. Conversations bloomed in quiet corners of the library, over long walks across campus, and in shared spaces where time seemed to stretch just for them. What began as a spark of admiration grew into a rhythm of companionship—study sessions and shared meals, standing together at protests, finding comfort in silence as much as in words. Their friendship deepened, roots entwining through shared hopes and the slow, steady discovery of all the ways their lives fit together.
Over time, those moments became the foundation of something neither of them had expected but both had craved—a love built on the simple, powerful truth that they were better together. It was a certainty she had carried with her since childhood, a steady light in the dark corners of her past.
Roots in Rocky Soil
Even as a child, she had felt it—that quiet truth, unshakable and real. The girl who sat in front of her in homeroom always left her speechless, her stomach fluttering whenever she turned around to pass a note or share a smile. She had known she was different, a lesbian, from a young age, and she never felt ashamed of it. But her parents were deeply religious, and when they pieced together the truth, they cast her out and into foster care before her tenth birthday.
The foster care system was no sanctuary. She became a pinball, bouncing from house to house, never settling long enough to call anywhere home. Some families simply didn’t know what to do with a girl like her. Others, once they realized what she was, saw her as a threat—someone who needed to be kept away from their children. Names blurred together, places faded into half-remembered rooms and faces. But there were some homes that remained sharp-edged in her memory, places where she kept her bedroom door locked at night, her back braced against the thin wood.
Unfortunately, locked doors didn’t always keep the monsters at bay. She learned to listen for heavy footsteps in the hallway, to breathe slow and shallow when the shadows passed beneath her door. But no matter what they did, they would never change who she was. Her identity was a light she kept tucked inside, a flame they could never reach.
By the time she aged out of the system, she was determined. She refused to be a victim. Despite everything—the moves, the broken promises, the nights spent bracing against locked doors—she graduated high school with some of the best grades in her class. Every test passed, every assignment completed felt like a quiet rebellion, proof that the world hadn’t crushed her.
When she started college, her vision for the future was already clear. She had one goal: to become the social worker she never had—the kind who listened, who understood, who saw kids like her and didn’t try to change them. Most of the social workers she had known had dismissed her identity, brushing off her truth with tired platitudes. She remembered the patronizing smiles, the way they told her she just hadn’t met the right boy yet. As if her existence was a phase that needed correcting. As far as she was concerned, men had never done anything but try to break her.
She didn’t need them. She didn’t need biological children, either. There were already too many kids lost in the foster care system, too many who had been thrown away like she had. Her path forward was clear—help as many of them as she could, offer the kind of safety and acceptance she had never known.
Kindred Flames
From the start, there had been something magnetic about Janis—something more than her boldness in the classroom or the quiet certainty that seemed to follow her like a shadow. It was in the way she held space for others, how her voice could soften a sharp room, how her laughter felt like warmth in the winter. She had a way of seeing people, of making them feel heard, even in a world that so often turned its back on those who didn’t fit the mold.
She learned quickly that Janis’s courage wasn’t just for show. It was rooted in lived experience, in a childhood where acceptance had come slowly, edged with discomfort and caution. Janis had known what it was like to feel out of place in her own home, to love deeply while treading carefully. But instead of turning inward, she had opened herself up—her empathy a quiet rebellion against the world’s harshness.
When they sat together on the library steps, books between them and the world moving on without notice, Janis would speak about her dreams of teaching. She wanted to create classrooms where every child, regardless of ability, felt valued. Where no one had to fight to be seen. Her vision was vivid—schools with sensory-friendly spaces, lesson plans that adapted to each child’s needs, and a curriculum that celebrated differences instead of hiding them.
She would listen, captivated by Janis’s passion, the way her hands moved when she spoke, painting the air with possibilities. It wasn’t just what Janis wanted to do—it was the way she believed it could be done. It was a hope without edges, boundless and real.
It wasn’t long before those quiet conversations turned into shared action. They volunteered together, tutoring kids after school and organizing supply drives for underfunded classrooms. They stood side by side at protests, their hands entwined, voices raised in unison. There were late nights spent crafting posters, cups of coffee going cold as they planned ways to make a difference. Every small victory—a kid passing a test, a teacher agreeing to try a new method—felt monumental because it was a step toward the world they wanted to build.
Over time, admiration deepened into something more. What began as a friendship grounded in shared purpose bloomed into love, each moment layering over the last. It felt inevitable, like gravity, like finding a home you didn’t realize you had been searching for. Their love became its own kind of activism—a testament to the idea that creating safe spaces started within the walls of their own hearts.
Through it all, Janis remained a beacon. She wasn’t perfect—no one was—but her imperfections only made her more real. She stumbled, had bad days, doubted herself, but she never stopped trying. She never lost the spark that had drawn her forward in that classroom all those years ago. And as their lives intertwined, she felt the weight of something she had only glimpsed before—a life where love and purpose walked hand in hand, where building something good was as simple and as complex as holding on to each other and refusing to let go.
Building a Home
After graduation, she and Janis moved into a small, one-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t much—cramped and drafty with mismatched furniture—but it was a start. They spent weekends sketching floor plans for their future home, a place where every child, regardless of ability, could find safety They dreamed of wide doorways, roll-in showers, and spaces designed with love and intention. Each step forward—every saved dollar, every completed foster parent class—was a brick laid in the foundation of the life they were building together.
Together, they would build a home where every child they welcomed felt seen, where love was a promise kept and never taken back. And through it all, that old, stubborn certainty remained—a light they had carried through every shadow, one they now shared with each child who walked through their door.
It wasn’t easy. Even though they could finally marry, love was not enough to erase the lingering shadows of prejudice. In many parts of the country—places like where she grew up—being in an “untraditional” relationship still barred them from adopting children. The laws may have changed, but minds hadn’t always followed.
So they did what they had always done: they moved forward, together. They left behind familiar streets and old ghosts, settling in a more welcoming state where their dream of building a family could become a reality.
They spent long evenings talking about what they wanted their home to look like, what kind of parents they hoped to be. They both knew they wanted kids, but adoption had its limits. It might mean only helping a few children, but fostering—fostering had no ceiling. There were always kids in need of a safe place, a soft landing in the midst of turmoil.
They decided to open their doors wide. The choice was never about filling a void in their own lives but about offering a refuge to children who had none. They wanted to help the kids who might not fit easily into other homes—the ones with disabilities, those who identified as LGBTQ, the ones too often left behind. It was a promise to the children they once had been, to right the wrongs of their own pasts.
Janis’ story, like hers, was tangled with loss and longing. When they met in college, Janis had only recently come out to her parents. While Janis’ family had known other LGBTQ people, acceptance came haltingly, edged with discomfort. Their conversations were strained, the kind where words could turn into weapons without warning. But through the pain of those interactions, Janis’ resolve only grew stronger. She had learned early on how to hold space for both love and disappointment, a skill that would later help them create a home where every child felt wanted.
Determined to break the cycle, they approached the fostering process with the same conviction they had brought to everything else. They completed the paperwork, opened their home for in-depth interviews, and showed the caseworkers the world they had built—one filled with warmth and intention. By then, they were already established members of their community. They had friends and neighbors who saw them not as an exception but as an example of what family could mean. Gathering the necessary references was effortless, a testament to the lives they had touched just by being themselves.
When their approval finally came through, it was more than just a certification—it was an affirmation of everything they had fought for. They had created a home where love wasn’t conditional, where children of all kinds could find safety and acceptance. It was the start of something bigger than either of them had imagined, the first step in a journey that would stretch across decades and fill their home with the sounds of laughter, healing, and hope.
Once they were approved as foster parents, all they had to do was wait. They didn’t have to wait long. One evening, as the sun sank below the horizon, they sat together on the couch, watching the highly anticipated Ellen relaunch. Their cozy, single-level home was filled with the warmth of laughter and the comfort of familiar voices. The house had been designed with intention—wide doorways, barrier-free bathrooms, and low countertops—making every space accessible to all, regardless of ability. Their home was more than just a shelter; it was a promise that every child who came through their door would feel seen, safe, and welcomed.
The Call That Changed Everything
When the phone rang, they shared a glance, both knowing that this call could change everything. The social worker explained that a young child with spina bifida needed a temporary placement. The courts were still determining if the child’s parents were fit to care for them. When the child arrived, their small frame and wary eyes told more of the story than words ever could. The social worker quietly shared the details—malnourishment, a severe diaper rash, and a urinary tract infection. Signs of neglect sat heavily between them, unspoken but undeniable.
Taking gentle steps forward, they led the child inside, the smooth transition from the ramp outside to the hardwood floors a small but meaningful comfort. They moved slowly, guiding the child through the open spaces of their home, showing them that nothing here would be a barrier. The bathroom was warm and welcoming, with a roll-in shower and grab bars within reach. Soft towels were stacked neatly, and bubble bath soaps lined the tub’s edge.
They knelt to the child’s level, explaining every step, letting them set the pace. It was important that the child felt safe and in control—something that had likely been rare in their young life.
When asked if they’d ever had a bubble bath, the child shook their head. So they pulled out all the different bubble bath soaps they had, letting the child choose their favorite scent. The small act of choice brought a hint of light to the child’s face. Carefully, they helped the child out of their soiled clothes, but when one of them moved to put the clothes into a trash bag—for safekeeping—the child’s expression crumpled. It took a few soft-spoken assurances to explain they weren’t throwing anything away, just keeping the clothes safe.
When the soiled pull-up was removed, the extent of the rash became apparent. Angry red skin, raw and beginning to break down. They felt a pang of grief and anger, but they knew this moment wasn’t about them. It was about this child, about showing them that love could be gentle.
They slowly lowered the child into the warm bath, the water lapping gently against raw skin, a soft hiss of pain shared in silence. The scent of lavender bubbles curled through the air, a tender counterpoint to the child’s wary expression.
After making sure the child was okay, they stepped out of the room to give them a few minutes of privacy. They hadn’t even fully closed the door before a small voice called them back.
Reassuring the child, they asked if they wanted help cleaning up. The child’s face brightened, a fragile hope peeking through the layers of fear. Taking turns, they gently washed away the dirt and pain, moving slowly, following the child’s lead. When it came time to clean the rash, they explained that it might sting but that it was necessary to help the skin heal. The child nodded, their small hands clutching the sides of the tub, their trust a precious and fragile thing.
In one of the many bedrooms they had prepared, they had set out clean pajamas and a fresh pull-up. The room was dinosaur-themed, with green walls and blankets patterned with prehistoric creatures. The full-sized bed looked like a nest of safety, a world away from the chaos the child had left behind. When the child wheeled into the room and saw the dinosaur pajamas, their face lit up. The joy on the child’s face mirrored the joy in their own hearts, a quiet moment of connection.
As they helped the child get dressed, they asked if they were hungry. The child mentioned spaghetti, a dish that reminded them of home—of the love they had felt when their mom and grandma cooked together. It was a memory soaked in warmth, a thread of happiness they could build on. Without hesitation, the two women set to work in the kitchen. The open floor plan allowed the child to watch as they cooked, the smell of browning hamburger and simmering tomato sauce filling the house, wrapping around them like a hug.
When they called the child to the table, the sight of the steaming bowl of spaghetti brought tears to their eyes. The women served small portions, understanding that trust was built slowly, in careful bites and soft words. To their delight, the child devoured two full servings, their appetite a hopeful sign.
As bedtime approached, they guided the child back to the dinosaur-themed room, keeping the lights dim and the voices soft. They could see the nervousness in the child’s posture—how their small hands gripped the armrests of their wheelchair, how their eyes darted around the room. Gently, they reassured the child that they were safe here, that nothing bad would happen.
They asked if the child wanted a stuffed animal to sleep with. The child’s eyes widened with wonder. They mentioned a dinosaur toy left behind in the rush to leave their home. Leading them to a collection of stuffed animals, the child carefully selected a blue tyrannosaurus rex, promptly naming it “Roar.”
With the nightlight on and Roar tucked under a small arm, the child settled into bed. They barely had time to pull the blanket up before the child drifted off, the deep, healing sleep of a child finally safe. The two women stood in the doorway, watching over this tiny, brave soul.
They knew they couldn’t fix everything. They couldn’t erase the pain or make up for the lost years. But they could give this child a moment of peace, a chance to breathe without fear. And as they stood there, hands clasped and hearts full, they knew that every step of their journey had led them to this moment—to this small, sleeping child who deserved the world.
The Next Chapter
The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. The world outside had slowed to a crawl as the global pandemic forced everyone indoors, but within their small, accessible home, life continued to bloom. There were no trips to playgrounds or family outings, but they found comfort in the simple things—marathon sessions of their favorite TV shows, puzzles and board games spread out on the dining room table, and the warmth of shared laughter. The women created new routines, folding stability into the unpredictable days. The child, who had once been so wary, now moved through their home with an ease that felt like a small miracle.
When the long-delayed court date finally arrived, the women and the child sat together in front of the computer screen, the virtual courtroom a reminder of how much the world had changed. The child had dressed up for the occasion, wearing their favorite dinosaur T-shirt under a button-up shirt. They clutched Roar, the blue tyrannosaurus rex, tightly in their lap, a quiet anchor in a sea of unknowns.
But neither the mother nor the father showed up to the hearing. The empty squares on the screen, marked only by muted microphones and silent names, felt like a door quietly closing. The child’s shoulders slumped, their expression a mix of sadness and resignation. The women exchanged a look, a wordless conversation passing between them.
When the session ended, they wrapped the child in a hug, whispering reassurances that this wasn’t the end—just a new beginning. As they sat together, the women felt a spark of possibility. There was an opportunity here, not just to provide a temporary home but to become a forever family.
After the hearing, they reached out to the social worker, carefully expressing their interest in adoption. They spoke about how the child had become a part of their family, how their days felt incomplete without the small sounds of their wheelchair rolling through the hallways, without the bedtime stories and quiet moments of connection.
The social worker listened, her expression softening as she took in their words. She agreed that the child had thrived in their care and promised to reach out to the judge to explore the possibility of turning this foster placement into a permanent adoption.
As they hung up the call, the women sat in the quiet of their living room. The house, filled with so many memories, seemed to hold its breath. They knew that nothing was certain, but they also knew that love had already made them a family. The legalities would follow. For now, they continued to do what they had always done—love, nurture, and hope.
A Forever Family
The judge thought the adoption couldn’t happen fast enough. As they read through the case notes, a clear picture emerged: the child was thriving in the women’s care. They had made every medical appointment, ensured a balanced diet, and watched as the child’s once frail frame slowly filled out with health. Under their roof, the child had found not only stability but also joy—something that had been painfully absent from their early years.
The judge’s concern deepened when reviewing the repeated absence of the biological parents. This was not the first missed court date, and the silence on their end spoke volumes. Even if the parents reappeared, there were serious doubts about their ability to provide the environment the child needed to continue thriving. Neglect had left its mark, not just physically but emotionally, and the judge knew that uprooting the child now could undo all the progress they had made.
As far as the judge was concerned, the biological parents had relinquished their rights when they had chosen absence over action—not only in their care for the child but in failing to show up when it mattered most. The court had a duty to protect the best interests of the child, and all evidence pointed to the women’s home as the safest, most nurturing place for them.
With a few signatures and a lot of paperwork, the judge’s gavel came down with a soft but certain thud—an echo of finality, of forever. They left the courtroom hand in hand, the weight of those papers light compared to the promise they held.
A Home for Many
But for the women, this was only the beginning. Becoming parents had reinforced the fire within them to advocate for change. They had seen firsthand how difficult it could be for children with disabilities to find loving, permanent homes. They had witnessed how bias and outdated policies could keep loving families apart. So they took their story public, speaking out about the need for reform in the foster care and adoption systems.
They began volunteering with organizations that supported disabled and LGBTQ+ youth, using their voices to amplify those who often went unheard. They shared their journey at community meetings, advocating for more accessible housing, inclusive school programs, and better support for foster families. They hosted workshops, taught others how to create homes that were not only accessible but welcoming, and mentored new foster parents, showing them how to build trust with children who had experienced trauma.
Their home became a haven not just for the child they had adopted but for many others who needed short-term respite or emergency care. They remained licensed as foster parents, always keeping an extra bed ready. Each child who came to stay with them left with a suitcase full of clothes, toys, and a promise that they would always carry a piece of their home in their hearts.
And through it all, the child they had adopted continued to grow—stronger, braver, and more confident each day. They joined their moms in their advocacy work, sharing their own story when they felt ready, standing as proof of what love and stability could do. Together, they became a voice for change, a living example of how family could be built from compassion and choice, and how every child deserved a safe place to call home.
Their activism for children had only just begun with that first adoption. Over the many years of fostering, they had countless children walk or roll through their door. Some stayed only for a night or two, finding a safe harbor in the storm of their lives. Others, like their first child, stayed forever, their temporary bed becoming a permanent part of the home. No matter how long they stayed, every child who crossed their threshold left knowing they were loved and supported.
Their home became a sanctuary, a place where kids could ask questions without fear, where every holiday meant a seat at the table, and every bedtime ended with whispered reassurances and soft nightlights casting gentle shadows. Over the years, they hosted birthday parties for children who had never blown out candles before, celebrated report cards, and cheered on milestones —both big and small.
Over time, they adopted four children, but two stood out most vividly in their memories. One was a non-binary youth, whose parents struggled to understand what being non-binary meant and tried to make them conform to their birth sex. When that didn’t work, they essentially said, ‘We can’t handle this type of non-conforming behavior,’ and gave them up to the state. They learned sign language to better communicate with a deaf child whose parents had given them up for adoption because they could not cope with having a non-hearing child.
They made additional modifications to their home to accommodate other children who had varying levels of disability, always maintaining as much of a warm and welcoming atmosphere as possible, despite some of the medical-grade equipment they had in the home.
A Legacy of Love
Opening her eyes after drifting through the memories, she struggled to remember the exact number of lives they had touched. She smiled faintly, knowing the number wasn’t what mattered. In her heart, she knew it was easily over a hundred children who had found safety and love within their walls. Some still sent holiday cards or called on Sundays, their voices echoing through the same halls where they once felt safe enough to simply be themselves. Others had grown up and moved on, but pieces of them remained—the pencil lines marking heights on the bathroom doorframe, colorful handprints on the garden wall, and names carefully carved into the bench that lined the dining room.
Their first child went on to follow in both of their mothers’ footsteps, becoming not only a social worker and an educator but also a passionate advocate for all children in the foster care system. They helped raise funds to start a group of foster homes specifically designed for disabled and LGBTQ youth, aptly named ‘Next Chapter Homes’—a legacy that she and Janis had only dreamed of when they first sketched floor plans on the back of old notebooks in their drafty first apartment. Proof that love, when shared freely, could outlast a lifetime.
They had fostered right up until the moment she received her terminal diagnosis. Even then, their focus remained on the children. They made sure every child in their care transitioned to new homes with as much love and care as possible. They spoke to each child honestly, explaining that sometimes even the strongest love stories had to change shape.
She had no regrets. Her life had been filled with the kind of love she had once only dreamed of as a child. She thought of their first apartment—the drafty one-bedroom with thin walls and a kitchen table that wobbled if you leaned too hard. Even then, they had imagined a home filled with love and intention. What started in that tiny space, with whispered dreams and sketched blueprints, had blossomed into a sanctuary where every child could find safety and warmth. The home they built together had grown, but the love at its foundation had never wavered.
The home they had built would remain a refuge, a testament to what was possible when love was not just a feeling but an action, a promise kept. Their home would remain, a lighthouse for those still finding their way through the storm. It would always be that rock that so many children over the years had come to depend on.
Each room held echoes of laughter and healing, each wall painted with intention. What they had created was more than just a shelter—it was a legacy of love and acceptance that would continue to guide those who needed it most. The new children who found their way here would add their own stories to the pencil-marked doorframes, proof that love could stretch across generations.
The Final Breath
She wanted to go quietly, slipping away on the gentle current of her memories, leaving only peace behind. Janis, still cradled in the comfort of their home, continued to sleep, surrounded by the echoes of a life well-lived. When Janis awoke to the gentle morning light, she would carry forward the love they had always shared, now woven into every corner of their home.
She drew in a final, slow breath, the air warm and steady in her chest, a quiet ember of life glowing soft and low. She held it know it was to be her last. It also seemed as if the house they had built together was holding its breath right along with her as the house all of a sudden because still and calm.
As it slipped from her lips, so gentle it was almost a sigh, a serene stillness filled the room. Her face remained soft, a smile resting there, as if she had simply drifted into a sweet dream.
Outside, the first light of morning crept through the window, pooling around the room, brushing against the soft curve of her smile and the worn edges of the paperback in her wife’s hand. The house remained hushed, as if honoring her wish for quiet.
Outside the light caught on the colorful handprints on the garden wall and in the dinning room the names carved into the old bench, each a memory pressed into wood and paint. It was a new day—a continuation of the legacy she had helped build.
And somewhere, in the quiet of a child’s safe sleep or the joy of a new home found, the light she had carried through shadows into each child’s story remained—steady as a lighthouse beam, unwavering. A glow that would burn on, soft and endless, a promise etched into the walls of their home and into the hearts that had found refuge there.
