Winn’s Perspective

I didn’t set out to adopt the twins. I was just a foster mom with experience in NICU care when I got a call from our agency. Two medically fragile babies needed a home, and I said yes.

I wasn’t prepared for what would unfold next.

From the beginning, I was committed to honoring their story, even when the court unexpectedly moved up the final hearing by six months. I had questions, heartbreak, and a deep ache to understand the woman who had brought these precious lives into the world. That’s what led me to reach out to CPS and CASA—to know her, not just her case file.

February 7th was the day of the hearing. A cold, rainy, gray morning—fitting for the weight I felt. I had been told not to expect the parents to show, but twenty minutes after the judge began, the courtroom door opened. Without turning, I knew it was her.

Kitti walked in and sat a few rows in front of me. I heard her whisper, “That’s the lady who has the twins.” We exchanged a small wave and a soft smile. What was already a heavy day became devastating.

The court recessed for thirty minutes so she could speak with the twins’ father. I sat, silent and numb. When the hearing resumed, the judge announced that the parents had voluntarily relinquished their rights.

And then—I watched Kitti collapse.

She didn’t just cry. She broke. She fell to the floor sobbing, her body shaking. It was the kind of grief that strips a person bare. I waited for someone—anyone—to go to her. But no one moved. She lay on the cold courtroom floor, utterly alone in her sorrow.

And then, unbelievably, she had to pick herself up. She had to walk out and escort a distraught family member who had also become emotional. Even in her lowest, most shattered moment, she had to be the strong one.

Outside, in the pouring rain, I found her again. She stood soaked, abandoned. “She left me,” she said. “She took all my things. I don’t have my phone or my purse.”

She was homeless, heartbroken, and completely alone.

CASA told me they couldn’t help. I wanted to take her in my arms, put her in my car, give her everything she needed. But I couldn’t—not then. So I watched her walk away.

That night I cried, prayed, and pleaded with God for another chance to know her. To really know her. To tell her what I hadn’t said: that I saw her. That she mattered. That I wanted her to be part of this story.

And God answered.

The first time we met officially was in the CPS office. She walked in with quiet strength and a brokenness I could feel in my chest. She was beautiful, open, vulnerable. At the end of our visit, as we hugged goodbye, she whispered, “I would have been a good mom.”

It was like the air was pulled from the room. I whispered back, “I know.”

That moment changed everything. I didn’t just want to care for her children—I wanted to fight for her too.

I began sending her updates and photos, hoping to show her I wanted her in their lives. Most of the time, I got no reply. But I kept sending them anyway, choosing persistence, choosing grace.

When I told her we had an adoption date, I sent a message I had written and rewritten a dozen times. I told her I wanted her in their lives—sobriety or not—but I also needed trust. That message changed everything. She reached back out. She asked for help finding rehab. She asked if I would be there for her next child’s birth.

And I said yes.

I was there the day Winnie was born. She came into the world on Kitti’s birthday—a literal new beginning. When Kitti named her after me and asked me to be her godmother, I could hardly speak. It was one of the most sacred, soul-imprinting moments of my life.

That’s when we began to walk forward together.

Through rehab, sober living, Family Recovery Court—we became more than just two women connected by children. We became friends. We became family. My husband and daughters embraced her. The twins began weekend visits with her and bonded with their baby sister, Winnie. We spent holidays, birthdays, dinners, and late-night phone calls navigating the tension and beauty of this unconventional life we were building.

Kitti didn’t just get sober—she became a light. She began working in addiction recovery and is now over 17 months sober. The world may say I changed her life. But the truth is, she changed mine.

This story started with loss. But it’s becoming a story of redemption, of shared motherhood, of fierce love. Of choosing each other again and again.