I took in twin baby girls I discovered wrapped in towels inside a beach changing cubicle—and on their 18th birthday, they gave me those same towels back and whispered, “Dad… We Owe You the Truth”

hands locked beneath the table.

I didn’t need comfort. I needed her to tell me what to do.

“Trent,” she said, tapping the file, “finding those babies doesn’t give you a shortcut.”

“I know.”

“This process will be long. Checks. Visits. References. Questions you won’t enjoy.”

“I’ll answer them.”

“You just buried your fiancée and continue reading …