Fourteen years ago, I stood on a rain-slicked sidewalk and watched my life turn into a mountain of blackened rubble. The fire had taken everything—my home, my belongings, and, I believed, my husband, Josh. The police told me he hadn’t been alone; fragments of jewelry suggested a woman had been with him. I spent a decade mourning a man who had betrayed me in his final moments, or so the story went. But a week after the fire, a social worker called with a revelation that changed the trajectory of my life: the mistress had also perished, leaving behind four-year-old twin boys with no one to claim them.
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