I'm 29 years old. I'm single. I don't have a wife, a huge house, or stacks of money in the bank.
What I do have is five frightened children sitting only a few feet away from me.
The oldest is barely six. The youngest recently turned one. Outside the family courtroom, they are squeezed together on a hard wooden bench beneath cold fluorescent lights, gripping sleeves and each other's hands as if letting go might make one of them disappear.
Within an hour, a judge could approve an order placing them in separate foster homes.
The paperwork calls it "separate placement."
To me, it means something simpler: five siblings walking out of the same building and being driven in four different directions.
Three weeks earlier, I had never met them. Then I saw their photograph attached to an emergency placement notice. I kept staring at the oldest boy, especially the way he had one arm wrapped around the smallest child. I knew what that kind of grip meant before I was ready to admit why.
I called social services immediately.
"Mr. Carter, you're a single man," the worker told me. "Taking in five children under seven isn't realistic."
Homes had already been arranged—four different homes in separate towns. I pictured five children being led toward different cars while adults promised the separation would only be temporary. That picture stayed with me through breakfast, through work, and through every quiet minute afterward.
So I made the biggest decision of my life.
I emptied my savings account. I bought five children's car seats. I converted my workshop into a shared bedroom with bunk beds, then used what money I had left to hire a family-law attorney. By the time I finished, almost everything I had saved was gone. The five seats were waiting anyway.
Now I am standing before Judge Miller while the state's attorney explains why none of that makes me ready. He calls me impulsive and naive. He says I cannot possibly understand the exhaustion, expense, and responsibility of raising five children at once.
Part of me agrees with him.
I'm terrified.
Then Judge Miller leans forward.
"Mr. Carter, people don't make sacrifices like this without a reason. Tell this court the truth. Why would a man your age surrender his freedom, his savings, and the future he imagined for himself—for five children he has never even met?"
I look toward the oldest boy. His little sister has started crying, and he pulls her against his shoulder. He is trying to look brave, but one of his hands is shaking.
I know that hand.
I remember being the child attached to it.
I step toward the microphone and take one slow breath.
"Because I was six years old the last time I sat beside my own four siblings in a courthouse," I say. "I was the oldest, just like him. I kept my arm around my little sister until a caseworker called our names. Then five children were sent to different homes."
Judge Miller does not interrupt.
"The adults said it was temporary. It wasn't. Addresses changed. Families moved. Years passed. By the time I was old enough to search for everyone, we had become five separate lives. I've never managed to get all of us into the same room again."
My voice catches, but I keep going.
"I'm not asking this court to erase what happened to me. I'm asking you not to repeat it with them."
The state's attorney lowers the page in his hand.
──────────────────────
Type FIVE and I'll continue.
(I know you're curious about the next part, so please be patient and read on in the comments below.)
