When my mom died, she left behind my newborn triplet sons—three fragile babies who suddenly became my responsibility. Our father had already abandoned us after years of mocking me and disappearing when my mom got sick. He never came to the hospital, never called, and didn’t attend her funeral.
At 18, social services told me I didn’t have to take the babies. I chose to anyway. I grew up overnight, juggling low-paying jobs, online classes, and sleepless nights, raising my brothers one bottle and bedtime at a time.
Eleven years later, the father who left showed up at my door with an old envelope. Inside was a letter from my mom and trust documents—money she had set aside for the boys, hoping it would convince him to take responsibility. He never did.
Now he wanted part of that money, claiming he was sick and needed help. It became clear he hadn’t returned out of love or regret, but greed. I refused him, told him the money was for the boys only, and made him leave.
I locked the door, tucked the papers away for my brothers’ future, and knew one thing for certain: I was no longer the shadow he once mocked—I was the one who stayed, protected them, and built a home when everything fell apart.