“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 had the chance to grow up. 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, arrived—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 harsh words and unfairness. I dreamed of the day I’d take her away from there, so she’d never have to be alone again.
And that day came. When I finally got my own flat and secured guardianship, Emily moved in with me. We became a proper family. I worked, studied, and watched her grow—bright, beautiful, doing well in school, even taking up sports. I was proud of her.
But everything changed when Emily turned fifteen. She fell for an older bloke, around my age—Daniel. He was what you’d call “a wrong ’un”—no job, no education, always hanging around the estate. I tried to talk sense into her, but it was no use: tears, tantrums, “true love.” Then—pregnancy. She wasn’t even sixteen.
I pulled every string I could to speed up the paperwork. A few months later, twins were born—Liam and Sophie. I tried not to meddle but was always there to help. At first, things seemed stable. Daniel 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. Along came Noah. Then, everything fell apart—Daniel lost his job, started drinking, Emily began staying out, leaving the kids alone more and more.
By then, I had my own family—my wife, Charlotte, and we were expecting. But I couldn’t ignore what was happening to my niece and nephews. One day, their neighbours called: the kids were screaming, no one home. I rushed over—hungry, filthy, crying, their mother nowhere in sight. I called Charlotte, and without hesitation, she said:
“Bring them here.”
Suddenly, we had three more children. We bathed them, fed them, tucked them in. That first week was chaos, but there was peace in 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… could stay with us for a bit.
Eight years passed. The children became ours. We raised them as our own—Liam and Sophie were now in Year 4, Noah in Year 2, and our daughter with Charlotte was in reception. They called us Mum and Dad. No one spoke of Emily—not because I forbade it, but because they didn’t care to.
Then, just before New Year’s Eve, there was a knock at the door. We were making dinner, the kids cutting snowflakes… I opened it, and there stood Emily. Beside her, a man with foreign features. She looked older, but that same stubbornness was etched on her face.
“This is my husband,” she said. “We’re back. I want my children. We’re taking them to his country.”
I was dumbstruck.
Charlotte stepped into the hall, the kids peering behind her. Emily demanded them back on the spot. But when Sophie, staring at her, asked, “Mum, who’s this lady?”—my heart twisted. Emily faltered. She hadn’t even recognised her own daughter.
“I’m your mother!” she shouted. Sophie just pressed closer to me.
Emily stopped, silent. Then, quietly, she asked:
“Can I… at least visit them?”
Charlotte and I exchanged a look. After a pause, I nodded.
“Come by. But they stay with us.”
Emily left, shoulders hunched, wordless. Later, we took the kids outside to watch the fireworks. The sky blazed with light as I held them all—my children, not by blood but by love. And I knew, without a doubt, that I’d done the right thing all those years ago when I brought them home.
Sometimes, family isn’t who you’re born to—it’s who you choose to stand by, no matter what.
