“Give me back my children!” demanded the sister who had been gone for eight years…
Sometimes life forces you to become a parent before you’ve even grown 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 joined me—she was only four. We clung to each other however we could. I gave her my sweets, helped with her schoolwork, shielded her from cruelty and unfairness. I dreamed of the day I’d take her away from that place, the day she’d never be alone again.
And that day came. When I got my first flat and secured legal guardianship, Emily moved in with me. We became a real family. I worked, studied, and she grew—bright, beautiful, excelling in school, even taking up sports. I was so proud.
But everything changed when Emily turned fifteen. She fell for an older guy, someone my age. Michael was what people call a “street wolf”—jobless, uneducated, always loitering around the estate. I tried to talk her out of it, but it was useless: tears, tantrums, declarations of love. Then—pregnancy. She wasn’t even sixteen.
I pulled together everything I had to push through their rushed registry office wedding. A few months later, twins—Sophie and William—were born. I tried not to meddle, but I was always there for them. At first, things seemed stable. Michael got a job; Emily stayed home with the babies.
But before the twins turned six months old, Emily was pregnant again. I sighed but accepted it. Little Henry arrived. Then everything fell apart. Michael got sacked, started drinking, Emily began staying out, leaving the children alone more and more.
By then, I had my own family—my wife Julia, expecting our third. But I couldn’t ignore what was happening to my nieces and nephew. Then one day, Emily’s neighbours called—the kids were screaming, no one home. I rushed over. They were filthy, hungry, sobbing, while their mother was who-knows-where. I called Julia, and without hesitation, she said,
“Bring them home.”
Just like that, we had three more children. We bathed them, fed them, tucked them in. That first week was a blur of care, but my heart was steady—they were safe. Then Emily showed up—not for them, but for money. Said she was leaving the country with some older man, and the kids… could stay with us for now.
Eight years passed. Those children became ours. We raised them as our own: Sophie and William were now in Year 4, Henry in Year 2, and Julia and I had a little girl in Reception. They called us Mum and Dad. Emily was never mentioned—I never forbade it, but they never asked.
Then, right before New Year’s Eve, a knock at the door. We were making dinner, kids cutting out paper snowflakes… I opened it—Emily stood there. Beside her, a man with dark features. She looked older but with the same stubborn determination.
“This is my husband,” she said. “We’re back. I want my children. We’ll take them to his country.”
I froze.
Julia stepped forward, the children peering from behind her. Emily demanded them back immediately. But when Sophie, staring at her, whispered, “Mummy, who’s that lady?”—my heart shattered. Emily faltered. She didn’t even recognise her own daughter.
“I’m your mother!” she shouted. But Sophie pressed into my side.
Emily faltered. Then, quietly, she asked,
“Can I… at least visit them?”
Julia and I exchanged a glance. A beat of silence. Then I nodded.
“You can. But they stay with us.”
Emily left, shoulders slumped, without another word. We took the kids outside to watch the fireworks. The sky roared with light, and I held them all—my children, strangers by blood, bound by love. And I knew—without doubt—that eight years ago, I’d done the right thing by bringing them home.
