“Give me back my children!” demanded the sister who had been gone for eight years…
Sometimes life unfolds in ways that force you to become a parent before you’ve even had the chance to grow up yourself. Not by choice—by circumstance. That’s exactly what happened to me.
My name is Edward. I grew up in an orphanage. When I was nine, my little sister, Lucy, was brought there too—she was only four at the time. We clung to each other as best we could. I shared my sweets with her, helped with her schoolwork, shielded her from harsh words and unfairness. I dreamed of the day I’d take her away from that place, so she’d never be alone again.
And that day came. When I got my first flat and arranged guardianship, Lucy moved in with me. We became a proper family. I worked, studied, and she grew—bright, beautiful, doing well in school, even taking up sports. I was so proud of her.
But everything changed when Lucy turned fifteen. She fell for an older boy, around my age. Jack was what you’d call a “wrong’un”—no job, no education, always loitering about. I tried to talk her out of it, but it was useless: tears, tantrums, declarations of love. Then came the pregnancy. She wasn’t even sixteen yet.
I did everything to speed up their registry office wedding. Months later, twins—Oliver and Emma—were born. I tried not to interfere too much, but I was always there if they needed me. At first, things seemed stable. Jack found work, Lucy stayed home with the babies.
But before the twins were even six months old, Lucy was pregnant again. I sighed but accepted it. Little Thomas arrived. Then it all fell apart: Jack got sacked, started drinking, Lucy began going out more, leaving the children alone for hours.
By then, I had my own family—my wife, Claire, and we were expecting our first child. But I couldn’t ignore what was happening to my niece and nephews. Then one day, Lucy’s neighbours called: the children were screaming, no one home. I rushed over—the babies were filthy, hungry, crying, while Lucy was nowhere to be found. I called Claire, and without hesitation, she said:
“Bring them home.”
Just like that, we had three more children. We bathed them, fed them, tucked them in. The week was exhausting, but my heart was at peace—they were safe. A week later, Lucy turned up—not for the children, but for money. She said she was moving abroad with some man, and the kids… could stay with us for now.
Eight years passed. The children became ours. We raised them as our own: twins Oliver and Emma were now in Year 4, Thomas in Year 2. And our daughter with Claire was in reception. They all called us Mum and Dad. No one mentioned Lucy 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 preparing dinner, the children cutting out paper snowflakes… I opened it—and there stood Lucy. Beside her, a man of Middle Eastern appearance. She looked older, but her expression was just as determined.
“This is my husband,” she said. “We’re back. I want my children. We’re taking them with us—to his country.”
I was stunned.
Claire stepped into the hallway, the children behind her. Lucy immediately demanded her kids back. But when Emma looked up at her and asked, “Mum, who’s that lady?”—my heart clenched. Lucy faltered. She didn’t even recognize her own daughter.
“I’m your mother!” she snapped. But Emma just pressed closer to me.
Lucy hesitated, then went quiet. Finally, she whispered,
“Can I… at least visit them?”
Claire and I exchanged a glance. After a pause, I nodded.
“Come by. But they stay with us.”
Lucy left, shoulders slumped, silent. We took the children outside to watch the fireworks. The sky was alight, and I held them all tight—my children, not by blood, but by love. And I knew I’d done the right thing that night, eight years ago, when I brought them home.
