The Gang of Four

When I was younger, I had a very specific life plan.

Not a career plan. Not a retirement plan. Nothing practical like that.

No, my grand vision for adulthood was to have two sets of twins. Four children total. Two boys, two girls. Perfectly balanced, like some kind of tiny family basketball team I had carefully drafted in my imagination.

Why twins?

Excellent question. I have no idea.

Apparently, my younger self believed life should come in matching sets.

Then along came Terry, who was much better at bringing my ideas back down to Earth. Whenever I brought up my brilliant twin strategy, he would grin and ask, “How exactly are we planning to make twins? Do you have a recipe for that?”

Fair point.

So we scaled back our ambitions and became what I can only describe as aggressively normal. Suddenly, our imaginary future included one boy named Lucas and one girl named Macy. Very sensible. Very wholesome. Like a couple in a catalog smiling over matching coffee mugs.

And honestly, it was lovely to dream that way.

Dreaming is free, after all.

But life has a funny way of asking better questions than the ones we started with.

As Terry and I grew older, and as our life together became less about fantasy and more about thoughtful choices, we had to face something bigger than names on a list. We never knew exactly what caused MS, or what role genetics might play. The unknown sat quietly in the room with us.

Not loud.

Just present.

And so, with clear eyes and full hearts, we decided not to have children.

It was not a sad decision. It was a loving one.

Besides, the world is already full of little souls needing homes, and we were also realistic enough to know that by the time we got around to raising kids, we might be the only parents at graduation asking where the early bird dinner special was.

So naturally, we found our way to animal shelters.

Honestly, it made perfect sense.

A shelter is basically a matchmaking service for slightly chaotic humans and emotionally complicated animals.

And somehow, it worked beautifully for us.

Most of our fur-children came from shelters, each one arriving with their own personality, quirks, and deeply held opinions about furniture.

At our fullest, our family was four.

Terry. Me. Sammie. Jolie.

Our Gang of Four.

Sammie was sweetness wrapped in fur. Pure princess energy. Graceful, gentle, and probably convinced she was the true owner of the house.

Jolie, on the other hand, arrived like a small natural disaster with paws.

She was wild. Glorious. Slightly criminal.

Naturally, we adored her.

Together, we somehow made the perfect little pack.

These days, it is just Jolie and me here on the ground. But family does not really shrink. It simply changes shape.

Sometimes when I look up at the wide open sky, endless and blue as possibility, I imagine Terry and Sammie somewhere beyond it, together, keeping an eye on the two of us.

No matter where any of us are, I know this much is true.

Our Gang of Four is still one.

A slightly unconventional family.

The very best kind.