I was 10 years old the first time my parents fostered a child.

I was 26, married and the mother of a 2-year-old when they fostered their last.

But before they renewed their foster license, they asked me if I would be OK with another sibling who was younger than my son.

I’ll never forget that conversation. I sat in a parking lot picking at a loose thread on my sleeve with my toddler napping in the backseat. My mother spoke through her crackly speakerphone, and I could hear the longing in her voice.

“Dad and I would love a little girl after all these boys.”

“But we would understand,” she added sheepishly, “if it would be too strange. I mean, E would have an aunt younger than him.”

“It would be unconventional,” I admitted. “But when have we ever been conventional?”

I knew telling my parents no could mean a foster child would go without the kind of home every child deserves.

So, I agreed to the plan.

It’s not always easy raising my kids alongside my siblings, but I’m proud to be part of a family that never stops making room for more.

Excerpt from my essay on HuffPost:

Photo: My sister and daughter—three years apart