I never imagined I’d become a parent at 18—let alone overnight, and to two newborn twins. But the night my mom vanished, my whole life shifted in a heartbeat. One moment, I was a stressed high school senior juggling exams and part-time jobs. The next, I was standing in a silent apartment at 3 a.m., one baby screaming in my arms, the other crying from her bassinet. No note. No goodbye. Just an empty space where my mother should’ve been—and the terrifying realization that if I didn’t step up, my little sisters would have no one.
Mom, Lorraine, had always been unpredictable—sometimes warm, sometimes stormy, like the world owed her something. For a couple of weeks after Ava and Ellen were born, she tried to manage. Then she disappeared, leaving diapers, bottles, and chaos behind. I gave up college plans, worked every shift I could find, and learned to stretch groceries until payday. People told me to let “the system” handle it, but I couldn’t stand the thought of my sisters growing up wondering why nobody fought for them. At first, they didn’t call me “brother”—they called me “Bubba,” and somehow, that name became my whole identity.
Life settled into a rhythm, messy but ours… until seven years later, when Lorraine returned. At first, I barely recognized her—designer coat, flawless makeup, expensive gifts spilling from shiny bags. She smiled like she was here to make things right, playing sweet with the twins as if she hadn’t missed their entire childhood. Then the truth landed in my hands: a thick envelope, full of legal language. She wanted full custody.
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