They appeared on the beach every morning—three small children, always alone, always quiet. I didn’t know their names or where they came from, but something told me their story wasn’t as simple as it seemed. Hi, I’m Martha, 74.
I am widowed, have no kids, and live alone in a quiet beach town. My days were simple before those three angels caught my eye. Here’s the story of how I became their adoptive grandmother.
Now that I’d long since retired, my days were spent having coffee with a splash of cream around 6 a.m., a long walk along the shoreline, and then a crossword puzzle or a paperback on the porch until the sun dipped behind the dunes. Sometimes I could be found chatting with my lovely neighbors. I wasn’t exactly lonely, but my life lacked purpose; it was predictable, maybe even boring—something I had gotten used to.
Then last summer came along and pulled the rug out from under my well-ordered life. It started innocently enough. Three kids.
Triplets, I figured. They appeared to be around five or six years old. They showed up every morning on my walks along the shore like clockwork.
I’d spotted them trudging down the beach with tiny plastic buckets and sandy flip-flops that barely stayed on their feet. One always lagged, dragging a tattered stuffed bunny by the ear. Another, usually the middle girl, kept looking over her shoulder as if someone might be following.
Something in that small, constant flinch tugged at my heart. The trio would sometimes run, play, and laugh quietly, as if they were trying to be discreet. I tried to ignore the lonely children at first, telling myself they were just kids enjoying the beach.
For the first few days, I told myself they were just playing while their parents relaxed nearby. Maybe someone was watching from a deck or lawn chair. But I watched too, and I never saw anyone with them.
Those kids had no sunscreen, no hats, no towels. They never carried snacks or water. And they didn’t talk to anyone—just each other.
Still, I didn’t want to intrude. I told myself the kids were shy and their parents were private. So I kept my distance.
Then one morning, I saw the smallest one—Ethan, I would later learn—trip on a piece of driftwood and scrape his knee. His sisters ran to him, panicked, patting the cut with a little T-shirt. But no one else came, and no one even noticed.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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