The thing no one tells you about taking in a toddler overnight is that it’s basically like waking up one morning and being told you now live with a wild raccoon that calls you “Unko” and thinks toilet paper is a snack.
When my sister, Amanda, died, it wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t some freak accident or tragic disease. It was a slow, cruel fade-out. Cancer doesn’t care that you’re 32 with a three-year-old daughter who still calls every car “vroomy.” So when the doctor pulled me aside and said, “It’s time to make some decisions,” I knew what that meant. Amanda had named me Luna’s guardian months ago, when her prognosis started dipping. I said yes because that’s what you do when you’re someone’s only family left. You say yes, and you figure it out later.
Except “later” came fast. Two weeks ago, I drove back from the hospital with a toddler in a car seat that still had the price tag dangling from the side, a diaper bag filled with glittery snacks, and exactly zero parenting instincts.
Her mom had just died, and yet Luna was singing “Wheels on the Bus” like the world hadn’t shifted on its axis. I envied her for that. I also had no clue how to match toddler socks, so we both had our blind spots.
By the time the CPS social worker scheduled a check-in, I’d convinced myself I had this. I wasn’t perfect, but I’d managed to keep Luna alive, fed, and vaguely entertained. That was the bar, right? Keeping the tiny human breathing and occasionally laughing?
The apartment was as clean as it was gonna get. I had juice boxes in the fridge, carrot sticks on the counter (which I’d later realize she thought were orange crayons), and I was about to nuke some chicken nuggets for lunch when it hit me.
The silence.
It wasn’t just quiet. It was eerie.
“Luna?” I called out, stepping out of the kitchen. “Where’d you go, kiddo?”
No answer.
Then—thump.
Followed by a muffled giggle.
I turned slowly and saw her little face smooshed against the glass doors of the liquor cabinet below the kitchen island. Her cheeks puffed out, her nose flattened, and her tongue was doing that sticky-kid-thing where it spread across the surface like a melted fruit roll-up.
“Hi, Unko!” she chirped, all joy and no shame.
I was still blinking in disbelief when the doorbell rang.
Social. Freaking. Worker.
I dove toward the cabinet like it was a ticking bomb. Tried to yank the door open, but she’d wedged her foot into the corner like she was staging a sit-in protest.
“Luna, come on!” I hissed. “This is not a good time to reenact your David Blaine routine!”
She giggled and started licking the glass.
Second ring. My heart did the thing where it tries to climb out of your throat.
In one glorious motion of panic, sweat, and regret, I managed to extract her just enough to hold her like a sack of potatoes. I dashed to the door, plastered on a smile, and opened it to find a woman in a blazer, clipboard in hand, scanning me like TSA.
“Hi! You must be Connor. I’m Megan,” she said, stepping in with a practiced smile. “I’m here for Luna’s welfare visit.”
Luna, now perched on my hip, chose that moment to announce proudly, “I went in the magic door!”
Megan arched an eyebrow. “Magic door?”
“She means… the playhouse. We have a little fort made of pillows,” I lied with the speed of someone who had once talked his way out of a speeding ticket by referencing an allergic reaction to licorice.
We sat down. Megan made notes. Asked polite but piercing questions. Luna colored on the couch with a blue marker I swore I’d hidden. I offered coffee. She declined. My soul slowly left my body.
But then something shifted.
Megan asked Luna who she liked living with. Luna leaned in, grabbed my ear like it was a microphone, and whispered, “Unko makes pancakes with smiley faces.”
Megan smiled for real that time.
The rest of the visit blurred. She checked the bathroom, glanced through the kitchen, peeked into the bedroom (where I forgot the mountain of laundry was now impersonating Everest), and finally clicked her pen closed.
“You’re doing better than most,” she said, standing.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. She’s happy. She’s safe. You’re trying.”
And just like that, she was gone.
Luna stood by the window watching her car drive off. “She didn’t have pancakes,” she said, disappointed.
“No, but we do.”
I made us a celebratory batch right then. Banana smiley faces, chocolate chip freckles, whipped cream hair. Luna clapped like I’d just invented the concept of breakfast. I sat there watching her devour her masterpiece and something weird happened.
I stopped feeling like I was pretending.
That night, after a bath that involved two plastic ducks, a shampoo battle, and a meltdown over the injustice of bedtime, I tucked Luna in. She insisted on three stories and five hugs. I gave her six.
As I turned off the light, she murmured, “Mommy liked pancakes too.”
My chest clenched.
“She’d be proud of you,” I said softly. “Of both of us.”
She didn’t answer. Just rolled over and hugged her bear tighter.
I sat in the hallway for a while after that, staring at the wall, overwhelmed by the ache and the gratitude twisted together in my chest. I didn’t choose this life. It chose me. And maybe I wasn’t ready, but I was here. Present. All-in.
The next morning, Luna woke me up by slapping my face with a rubber duck.
“Unko,” she announced solemnly, “today we build a big pillow magic door.”
And we did.
Later that week, I cleared out the liquor cabinet. Replaced the contents with juice boxes, books, and stuffed animals. Turned it into a reading nook just her size.
She crawled inside, stuck her tongue to the glass again, and grinned at me. “Narnia,” she said.
I smiled back. “Exactly.”
If you ever find yourself suddenly responsible for a small human when you’re still trying to keep your own laundry situation under control, let me tell you: it’s terrifying. It’s humbling. It’s beautiful.
And sometimes, it starts with a liquor cabinet and ends with pancakes.
Ever been thrown into something life-changing when you felt the least prepared? Share your story. Someone out there probably needs to hear it. ❤️