“Give me back my children!” demanded the sister who had been gone for eight years…
Sometimes life takes a turn where you become a parent before you’ve even had the chance to grow up yourself. Not by choice—but by circumstance. That’s exactly what happened to me.
My name is Oliver. I grew up in an orphanage. When I was nine, my younger sister Emily ended up there too—she was only four at the time. We clung to each other as best we could. I gave her my sweets, helped with her schoolwork, shielded her from the cruelty and unfairness. I dreamed of the day I’d take her away from there, when she’d never have to be alone again.
And that day came. When I got my first flat and secured custody, Emily moved in with me. We became a proper family. I worked, studied, and she grew—bright, beautiful, doing well in school, even took up sports. I was proud of her.
But everything changed when Emily turned fifteen. She fell for an older bloke, around my age. Max was what you’d call a “wrong ’un”—no job, no education, always hanging about in dodgy spots. I tried to talk her out of it, but it was no use: tears, rows, hysterics. Then—a pregnancy. She wasn’t even sixteen yet.
I pulled every string to speed up their wedding. A few months later, twins arrived—Jack and Lily. I tried not to meddle, but I was always there to help. For a while, things seemed alright. Max found work, Emily stayed home with the kids.
But before the twins were even six months old, Emily was pregnant again. I sighed but accepted it. Then little Toby came along. After that, everything went downhill—Max got sacked, started drinking, Emily began disappearing, leaving the kids alone more and more.
By then, I had my own family—my wife Sophie, and we were expecting. But I couldn’t ignore what was happening to those children. Then one day, the neighbors called—kids screaming, no parents in sight. I rushed over—the little ones were filthy, starving, crying, their mother nowhere to be found. I rang Sophie, and without hesitation, she said:
“Bring them home.”
Just like that, we had three extra children. We bathed them, fed them, tucked them in. The first week was chaos, but my heart was at ease. They were safe. A week later, Emily turned up—not for the kids, but for money. Said she was moving abroad with some bloke, and the kids… well, they could stay with us for now.
Eight years passed. Those children became ours. We raised them as our own—Jack and Lily started Year 5, Toby in Year 2, and Sophie and I had our own little girl in reception. They all call us Mum and Dad. No one even talks about Emily anymore. I never stopped them, but they never asked.
Then, right before New Year’s Eve, there was a knock at the door. We were making dinner, the kids cutting out paper snowflakes… I opened it—and there stood Emily. Next to her, a man who looked Middle Eastern. She’d aged, but that same stubbornness was in her eyes.
“This is my husband,” she said. “We’re back. I want my children. We’re taking them—to his country.”
I was stunned.
Sophie stepped into the hallway, the kids peering around her. Emily started demanding them back immediately. But the moment Lily looked up and asked, “Mum, who’s this lady?”—my chest tightened. Emily faltered. She didn’t even recognise her own daughter.
“I’m your mother!” she shouted. But Lily pressed into my side.
Then Emily hesitated, fell silent. Finally, she whispered:
“Can I… at least visit them?”
Sophie and I exchanged a look. A pause. Then I nodded.
“Come by. But they stay with us.”
Emily left, shoulders slumped, wordless. We took the kids outside to watch the fireworks. The sky lit up, and I held them all close—my children, not by blood, but by love. And I knew, eight years ago, I’d done the right thing bringing them home.
