Grace Holloway has taught English literature at a rural Oregon middle school for much of her life. I never married. I never had kids. However, I raised twins who impacted my life in ways I never expected.
It started 22 years ago on a cool October morning.
As usual, I arrived at school early with coffee.
ready for eighth-grade prep. Principal Rowley unexpectedly met me outside my classroom.
“Grace,” he quietly began, “I need to talk to you. Remember the Harrison twins? Eli and Emma?
Yes, I did. Six-year-olds in Mrs. Jacob’s first grade class. The week prior, I assisted with reading. Eli was shy yet intrigued. Emma, smart and chatty, often grabbing her brother’s hand.
“There was a car accident last night,” the principal whispered. “Their parents died.”
My heart dropped.
The youngsters were puzzled, silent, and holding hands as they arrived at the district office early that morning. No local relatives or foster family had been discovered.
Walked to the workplace that afternoon and requested to sit with them.
Emma wouldn’t let go of my cardigan. On my lap, Eli rested his head.
Who knows why, but I started being their foster mother by the end of the week.
Everyone thought I was nuts. A teacher without children living in a two-bedroom apartment with student debts. I didn’t care. I couldn’t look away from those two children—two souls starving for love and home.
It was hard to adjust.
Months of nightmares plagued Eli. I would sit by his bed, stroke his hair, and sing melodies I hardly remembered from my youth when he cried out at night. Emma wouldn’t let me go. She followed me everywhere and held my hand till the school bell sounded when I left her off.
I had to learn how to make lunches, braid hair, assist with arithmetic assignments, and stretch my money to purchase new shoes when they grew.
Our tiny family increased with each passing year.
I nicknamed them “bonus kids.” I was originally nicknamed “Miss G” but later Mom.
Our first Christmas was simple—a little tree, handmade ornaments, and hot chocolate. After receiving a crayon painting of the three of us holding hands, I sobbed so much I had to go into the kitchen.
I framed the sketch. In my hallway, it remains.
Eli fell in love with science. He constantly tinkered, creating model rockets in the garden or attempting to create a volcano out of baking soda and vinegar in the kitchen (to my carpets’ dismay).
Emma loved words, however. She would read for hours, write poetry on pieces of paper, and sneak them into my lesson plans.
We weren’t ideal. We occasionally fought, particularly as teens. Worried all the time. A financial topic. Whether I was enough. Whether I was treating them well.
We had Friday movie evenings. Sunday pancakes. I shouted louder than anybody in the auditorium on their high school graduation day.
Eli received a biological engineering scholarship, Emma an English and communications award. When they departed for college, I held them warmly and grieved on the way home.
The home was silent thereafter. Too quiet.
Continued instruction. them still received care packages with cookies, handwritten messages, and stupid jokes I knew only them would like.
After that, life continued.
Twenty-two years after that tragic October morning, I was reaching retirement. My hair was graying at the temples and my knees hurt more. I hadn’t seen Eli and Emma in nearly a year—they were working in various places with adult lives.
I was marking exams at the kitchen table when the doorbell rang.
I was shocked when I opened the door.
Eli and Emma smiled, holding hands like toddlers.
They appeared older and more confident, but their grins remained.
“Surprise, Mom,” Emma said.
I blinked. “Why are you two here?”
“We need to talk to you,” Eli said, entering.
I prepared tea while they sat at the table, smirking like secret agents. My heart thudded.
Emma finished by sliding a manila envelope across the table.
What’s this? I requested.
“Open it,” she urged.
A huge stack of papers was within. Legal papers, building drawings, and financial paperwork confused me at first.
The headline read: “Holloway Learning Center – A School for Underprivileged Children.”
I glanced up, perplexed.
Eli cleared his throat. We’ve been working on this for two years. With funds, grants, and plenty of friend favors. An ancient downtown building was purchased. It was renovated.”
Emma grinned. After you, we named it.”
My hands shook.
“You what?”
“You gave us everything when we had nothing,” Emma whispered. “You trusted us when the world collapsed. You helped with schoolwork late, dried our tears, and never asked for anything.”
Eli said, “We wanted to do something that would honor what you gave us.” “We created a place where other kids—like us—could feel safe, learn, and be loved.”
I was speechless. The tears before the words.
“We want you to cut the ribbon at the opening ceremony next month,” Emma added, taking my hand. Mom, it’s your heritage. Though unaware, you constructed it.”
Then I wept. At the table, with both my children alongside me, holding my hands like they did twenty-two years ago.
Beautiful grand opening.
The new school contained local artist murals, a bright library with donated books, and a banner over the door reading: “The Holloway Learning Center – Where Every Child Deserves a Second Chance.”
That day, I stood at the platform, heart full. Hundreds of community members, kids, and instructors attended. I gazed at them and then at Eli and Emma in the first row.
I added, “I never planned to become a mother,” my voice shaking. “Life had a different plan. And I thank God daily that it did.”
I halted. “Just a teacher. However, Eli and Emma taught me more than I could teach. Regarding resilience. About love. About hope.”
Thunderous applause.
Emma said, “You saved us, Mom,” as the sun set. Our time to pay it forward.”
My house includes images of graduations, birthdays, and the ribbon-cutting of my name-named school on every wall.
Although I never had children, I was given something bigger. A opportunity to love and nurture two wonderful beings who become the sort of individuals the world needs.
It turned out I didn’t simply give them another opportunity.
They gave me one too.
