We were five months away from our wedding when I met my now-husband’s three sons, Chase, Chris and Sean. The October breeze whirled leaves around
them like a cyclone as they stepped out of the car. I welcomed them in our
home, telling each one of them how many stories their dad had told me about
them.
Like bouncing puppies, my three children greeted them excitedly and quickly gave
them a tour of the house. Bonding was immediate due to the closeness of the
ages. My oldest son, Michael, was 11. Chase was 10. Chris was 9. Sean and my
daughter, Keagan, were 8. Elijah, my youngest, was 5. Thicker than thieves,
they ran through the house playing everything from spies to superheroes. Craig,
my husband, was thrilled. His boys had “taken to me,” and my kids “had taken” to them. Nothing made him happier.
That weekend I got to know his boys. Bright-eyed and sweet to the core, they
told me stories of heartache and pain. They lived in a shed. They slept in
tents. And there were forbidden secrets they said they could never share. I
never pushed them. I would fold my arms around them in a big hug and tell them
if they ever needed us, we would always be there. They would nod their heads
and walk away. Sometimes their shoulders looked heavy, like a burden too big to
carry had been heaved upon them. I wondered if it was me.
