When my mother had cancer, my father chose another woman and disappeared. At 18, my twin brother and I became parents to our three siblings. Five years later, our father showed up at our door as if nothing had happened and demanded something that left us in shock
My name is Anna and I am a twin.
Daniel and I were twenty-four when things finally slowed down enough for me to breathe. But when our lives fell apart, we were barely eighteen.
I’m a twin.
I just finished high school. Still arguing about which dorm would be cheaper. Still believing that adulthood came with warnings and instructions
There were five of us. Daniel and I first. Then Liam. Then Maya. Then Sophie. They were nine, seven, and five years old then. Small. Noisy. Always hungry. Always asking questions that didn’t have right answers.
“Can you pick me up early tomorrow?”
“Is Mom coming home tonight?”
“Why is Dad acting strange?”
Nothing was right, but nobody had told him yet.
There were five of us.
The diagnosis came on a Tuesday. I remember because Mom had made pancakes that morning and apologized for burning them
“I’ll do better tomorrow,” he said, smiling too much.
On Friday we sat in a cold office with beige walls while a doctor used words I didn’t understand but somehow already hated. Cancer. Aggressive. Treatment.
Daniel squeezed my knee under the table. Dad didn’t say much. He just stared at his phone.
Cancer. Aggressive. Treatment.
***
Three days later, Dad called a family meeting in the living room
“I’ll be brief,” he said.
That should have been my first clue. He didn’t sit down. He stood by the door, as if he already knew he wasn’t going to stay
“I’ve been seeing someone,” she said. “For a while now.”
“Sophie!” Maya exclaimed. Sophie crawled onto Mom’s lap. Liam stared at the rug.
Dad called a family meeting in the living room.
“I can’t do it,” Dad continued. “I’m not strong enough to watch her get sick. I deserve some happiness too.”
Daniel stood up.
“So, are you just leaving?”
Dad shrugged. “I’m going to live with her. She gives me love and joy. I can’t live in constant sadness.”
Mom didn’t cry. That hurt her more than if she had.
“And the children?” I asked.
“I’m not strong enough to watch her get sick.”
He looked at me as if I had asked something unreasonable.
“They’re adults now. They’ll sort it out.”
And then she packed her suitcase. No goodbye hugs. No promises. No plans. The front door closed, and something in our house never opened again. After that, she disappeared.
No calls. No birthday cards. No money.
Not even messages asking how the treatment was going.
Nothing.
And then she packed her suitcase.
Mom got smaller. Her voice softened. Her steps slowed. I slept in the hospital chair next to her bed when Daniel stayed home with the children. One night, late, she took my hand
“Promise me something,” she whispered.
“I promise,” I said, still not knowing what she was asking
“Don’t let them take the children. Keep them together.”
Daniel moved to the other side of the bed.
“We will,” he said. “I swear.”
She smiled. Just once. For the last time.
“Promise me something.”
***
Days later, we were sitting in the courtroom, and the judge looked tired. Probably so were we
“Do they understand the responsibility they are assuming?” he asked.
Daniel nodded. “Yes.”
“Me too,” I said.
He brought down the gavel. And so, at eighteen, we ceased to be siblings who had lost their mother
We became parents. Overnight. And standing there, holding court papers instead of college brochures, I had no idea that this wasn’t even the hardest part yet.
We became parents. Overnight.
***
The years that followed are difficult to summarize, because at first they didn’t seem like years at all.
They seemed like a long period of survival, in which the days blurred together and the weeks passed without us noticing.
The beginning was brutal. Daniel and I enrolled in a community college because it was the only option that made sense. Close to home. Flexible hours.
A tuition fee we could barely afford, but we managed. We’d sit at the kitchen table late at night, with our laptops open and calendars scattered among empty cups.
The beginning was brutal.
“If I take classes in the morning, I can get back to school,” I said.
“Okay,” Daniel replied. “Then I’ll work early and come back at three for the pickup.”
“And Liam has a dentist appointment on Thursday.”
“I’ll change my shift.”
That’s how decisions were made. Not based on what we wanted, but on what the children needed
If one of us had an exam, the other stayed home. If one of us took an extra shift, the other took care of homework, dinner, baths, and bedtime stories.
That’s how decisions were made.
We learned to switch roles without arguing. We worked wherever we could.
I worked as a waitress at night and on weekends. I learned to smile despite the pain in my feet and the customers who snapped their fingers at me. Daniel worked in construction at dawn. When money was tight, he restocked the shelves at night.
Sometimes we would cross paths in the hallway at dawn.
“Are you going to sleep?” I asked him once.
“Finally,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
We learned to exchange roles without arguing.
Sleep came in snatches. Two hours here. Three there. We survived on cold coffee and adrenaline. Every unexpected expense felt like a threat. When the refrigerator broke, I stared at it as if it had personally betrayed me.
“We’ll fix it,” Daniel said calmly.
“We have no money.”
“We’ll find it.”
We never let the children see fear. They had clean clothes. Packaged lunches. Birthday cakes, even if they were homemade and a little crooked
We never let the children see fear.
Sophie once hugged me after I blew out the candles.
“It’s the best birthday of my life,” he said.
I turned away so he couldn’t see my eyes.
Our house was full of people. Noisy. Messy. But it was stable. Safe. Daniel and I became a system. We didn’t argue about who did more. There wasn’t time for that.
Slowly and painfully, things changed. We finished the race. Not on time. Not without setbacks. But we finished. Daniel found a stable job. So did I. The bills no longer weighed heavily on my chest. The house felt lighter.
The children noticed it first. More laughter. More future plans. We thought the worst was over.
Daniel and I became a system.
***
Then came a Saturday morning. Pancakes in the oven. A loud bang echoed through the house. I wiped my hands and opened the door. And for a split second, I wanted to slam it shut and scream
Because there was the man who had abandoned five children.
“Well, they’ve managed. I admit it.”
Daniel approached. “Why are you here?”
There was the man who had walked away from five children.
Dad sighed, as if it were tedious.
“I’m tired of waiting. We need to talk.”
“About what?” I asked.
He looked directly at me. “About what belongs to me.”
“If that’s what you want, fine.”
“Well, this house. Your mother and I bought it. When she died, everything became mine.”
“About what belongs to me.”
Daniel stiffened beside me. “Are you serious?”
Dad nodded, completely calm. “I mean it. I’ve been patient. But now I need you to give it back.”
“What for?” I asked in a low voice.
“For my life. My girlfriend and I are going to live together. I think they’ve spent enough time here already.”
A hot sensation coursed through my chest. My hands went numb. I wanted to scream. To tell him he had no right. That he had left. That we buried Mom alone. That we raised his children while he lived his “love and joy.”
But I didn’t.
I wanted to scream. To tell him he had no right.
“Okay,” I said.
They both looked at me.
Daniel turned abruptly. “Anna…”
“Okay,” I interrupted, without taking my eyes off our father. “If that’s the case.”
Dad’s shoulders relaxed. He smiled, relieved. “Good. I knew you’d be reasonable.”
“When do you want to come back?”
“Tomorrow. Around two.”
“If that’s the case.”
“Okay. Come on. I’ll have everything ready.”
He left without saying anything else.
As soon as the door closed, Daniel exhaled sharply. “What are you doing?”
“Setting a Trap.”
We barely slept that night. We scattered everything across the kitchen table. Papers piled in uneven heaps. Folders we hadn’t opened in years. Documents we kept because someone once told us: never throw them away
We barely slept that night.
“Guardianship,” Daniel murmured, turning pages. “The court order is here.”
“Adoption papers,” I said. “Copies.”
We worked in silence until my eyes burned.
At some point, I froze. “I remember something.”
Mom. Late at night. The hospital room was dimly lit. Her voice was soft from the painkillers. If anything happens to me, talk to the lawyer.
“I think I had planned it,” I said.
In the morning, we had an appointment.
“I think I had planned it.”
***
Our father returned the next day, at exactly two o’clock. Confident. Relaxed. Like a man collecting something he has already won
“Well?” he said, coming in. “I hope you haven’t wasted my time.”
He barely glanced at the folders on the table.
“This won’t take long,” he added. “I’ve waited long enough already.”
Then a man stepped forward.
“Good afternoon. I am the family’s lawyer.”
Our father blinked. “What did you say?”
“I’ve waited long enough.”
The lawyer introduced himself and sat down. Everything changed. The first document slid across the table. Then the second. Then the third. The smile vanished from our father’s face.
“This is the deed to the house,” the lawyer said. “Revised.”
Dad leaned forward. “That’s wrong.”
“The will,” the lawyer continued. “Updated.”
“That’s not…”
“And these,” he said, tapping another folder, “are the guardianship and transfer files.”
Dad half got up. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“Checked.”
“He did it,” I said softly.
He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time
“Because I knew you.”
The lawyer’s voice remained steady. Professional. “Once your wife understood her prognosis, she took steps to protect her children. Given your abandonment of the family, you forfeited any rights.”
Dad’s face paled. “This is ridiculous! I’m her husband.”
“You were,” the lawyer replied. “Legally, you have no right to this property.”
Silence.
“This is ridiculous! I’m her husband.”
“You’re not welcome to stay here,” the lawyer added. “If you refuse to leave, we will proceed accordingly.”
Daniel got up and opened the door. “Out.”
Dad looked at the house one last time. Then he left.
And this time nobody followed him.
Life didn’t suddenly become perfect after that. But it was ours again. The children went back to their routines. Homework at the kitchen table. Arguments about music. Laughter echoing down the hallway late into the night.
Life didn’t suddenly become perfect after that.
Daniel and I are still working. We’re still building. We’re still showing up.
The house remained full of life.
Weeks later our aunt called. She told us the truth. The woman our father had left our mother for had left.
Homeless. Moneyless. No advantage. He had left.
I wasn’t happy when I heard it. I felt finished.
Because karma didn’t come as revenge. It came as truth.
And every time I open the front door of that house, I think of my mother. And of the promise I kept.
Karma didn’t come as revenge. It came as truth.
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