My husband’s mom died suddenly, leaving her 6-year-old daughter, Sariyah, facing foster care. He insisted we adopt her. Pregnant and due soon, I protested, “It’s too much!” But his calm certainty—“You will”—chilled me.

We were weeks from our baby’s arrival. Sariyah arrived quietly, suitcase in hand, sitting politely on the couch. Too perfect, too guarded—she flinched at loud noises, asked permission for everything.

I tried: braided her hair, made star pancakes. She thanked me but never smiled. Then I went into early labor. Sariyah held my hand, waited silently in the hospital. Our daughter Leina was born healthy.

Sariyah seemed jealous, slipping away when we fawned over the baby. One night, I found her outside Leina’s door, whispering, “I just wanted to hear her breathing.” She wasn’t jealous—she feared being forgotten.

That shifted everything. She helped feed Leina, fold clothes, sang lullabies from her mom. She shared memories of “backwards days” with dessert first. We bonded quietly.

Then, Christmas: Her late father’s cousin Marla appeared with a lawyer, claiming custody. She knew nothing of Sariyah’s allergies or favorites. We fought—lawyers, testimonies from school and neighbors. Exhausted new parents vs. her money.

Sariyah found a court letter: “Do I have to go?” Heartbroken, we promised to fight. In court, she bravely said, “I want to stay with my family.”

Verdict: Custody denied. She was ours.

Adoption finalized, we partied with cupcakes. “Can I call you Mom?” she asked. “You’ve always felt like one.”

Now, Leina’s 2, Sariyah’s in third grade. They’re inseparable—sisters forever. Grief softens, but our family multiplies. What felt like “too much” was exactly right.