It’s all or nothing: either you babysit every one, or you don’t babysit at all.

When Clara called next to ask for babysitting, I hesitated only briefly. “I’ll do it—all three of them.” Her whispered “thank you” filled me with warmth.

Over time, routines formed. Mason, Ellie, and Jamal grew comfortable with me. I watched movies, helped with homework, and shared meals. Slowly, I became part of their world. Small gestures, like Jamal explaining how Mason comforts Ellie during nightmares, revealed the depth of their bond and the unconditional love already present.

Then tragedy struck. Darren passed away in an accident. The children were devastated. For months, I stepped in to help care for them and baby Ava. I became a source of stability, support, and comfort. Through grief, our family unit deepened, strengthened by shared loss and devotion.

One evening, Ellie gave me a crayon drawing of our home, showing all the children, Clara, and me. Above my figure, in simple letters, she wrote: “Nana.” No qualifiers, no distance—just love. It was the moment I truly understood that family isn’t only about blood. It’s about who shows up, who listens, who stays through everything.

Jamal began calling me simply to chat, sharing his school day or a funny story. “I know you weren’t there when I was little,” he said one night, “but I’m glad you’re here now.”

This isn’t the family I expected, nor the one I had planned. But it’s richer, deeper, and more beautiful than any dream I could have imagined. I once drew clear lines between “mine” and “theirs,” but now, looking at Mason, Ellie, Jamal, and Ava, I can no longer see that line. They are all mine, and I am theirs.Continue reading…