He didn’t think about logistics. Or money. Or sleep. Or what anyone else would say.
He turned to the staff member. His voice was calm. Certain.
“Then I’ll take all nine.”
The room went silent.
At first, they thought he was joking.
But he wasn’t.
The paperwork was long. The process complicated. The doubts from others were relentless.
“One man?”
“You’ve never had children.”
“You’re grieving.”
“This is impossible.”
Maybe it was. But grief had already taught him something important — tomorrow isn’t promised. And love is meant to be given while you can.
He sold his car. His television. Anything of value. He downsized the home he had once shared with Laura and moved into a modest fixer-upper near a park. With his own two hands, he built nine wooden cribs in the living room before the bedrooms were even finished.
He painted the walls soft pastel shades, though he had no idea which colors babies preferred. He assembled second-hand dressers, rocking chairs, and shelves for toys he hoped to buy someday.
The first night all nine babies slept under his roof, Richard didn’t sleep at all.
They cried in shifts. Diapers needed changing every hour. Bottles had to be warmed. One had a fever. Another refused to sleep unless held.
By sunrise, he was exhausted — but for the first time since Laura’s passing, he wasn’t empty.
He was needed.
