“Give me back my children!” demanded the sister who’d been gone for eight years…
Sometimes life has a way of making you a parent before you’ve had the chance to grow up yourself. Not by choice—by circumstance. That’s exactly what happened to me.
My name is Oliver. I grew up in an orphanage. When I was nine, my little sister Emily ended up there too—she was only four. We clung to each other as best we could. I gave her my sweets, helped with her schoolwork, shielded her from the rough edges of the world. I dreamed of the day I’d take her away from that place, when she’d never have to be alone again.
And then that day came. When I got my first flat and sorted out the legal guardianship, Emily moved in with me. We became a proper family. I worked, studied, and she grew up—bright, beautiful, good at school, even took up netball. I was so proud of her.
But everything changed when Emily turned fifteen. She fell for an older bloke—a mate of mine, actually. Jake was what you might call a “wrong ’un”—no job, no qualifications, always hanging about the estate. I tried to talk sense into her, but it was useless: love, tears, tantrums. And then—she was pregnant. My sister wasn’t even sixteen.
I pulled every string to get them hitched fast. A few months later, twins—Sophie and Jack—arrived. I tried not to meddle, but I was always there, helping out. At first, it seemed like they might manage. Jake got a job, Emily stayed home with the kids.
But before the twins were even six months old, Emily was expecting again. I sighed but bit my tongue. Little Alfie was born. Then it all went pear-shaped: Jake got sacked, took up drinking, Emily started going out more, leaving the kids alone for hours.
By then, I had my own family—my wife, Lucy, and a baby on the way. But I couldn’t ignore what was happening to my nieces and nephew. One day, Emily’s neighbours rang me—kids screaming, no one home. I dashed over to find them hungry, filthy, crying, while their mum was who-knows-where. I called Lucy, and without missing a beat, she said:
“Bring them home.”
Just like that, we had three more kids. We washed them, fed them, tucked them in. The next week was chaos, but I slept easier knowing they were safe. A week later, Emily showed 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. The children became ours. We raised them as our own: twins Sophie and Jack started Year 4, Alfie was in Year 2, and our own daughter, Lily, was in Reception. They called us Mum and Dad. No one spoke of Emily. I never stopped them—they just never asked.
Then, right before New Year’s Eve, there was a knock at the door. We were cooking dinner, the kids cutting out paper snowflakes… I opened it, and there stood Emily. Beside her, a man with a foreign accent. She’d aged, but that same stubborn look was on her face.
“This is my husband,” she said. “We’re back. I want my children. We’re taking them to his country.”
I froze.
Lucy stepped into the hallway, the kids peering behind her. Emily started demanding them back on the spot. But when Sophie blinked up at her and asked, “Mum, who’s that lady?”—my heart cracked. Emily faltered. She didn’t even recognise her own daughter.
“I’m your mother!” she snapped. But Sophie just hid behind me.
Emily stopped, went quiet. Then, in a small voice, asked:
“Can I… at least visit them?”
Lucy and I exchanged glances. Silence. Then I nodded.
“Come by. But they stay with us.”
Emily left, shoulders hunched, wordless. And we took the kids outside to watch the fireworks. The sky roared with colour, and I held them all tight—my children, not by blood but by love. And I knew I’d done the right thing, eight years ago, when I brought them home.
