Six months ago I was a 25-year-old structural engineer with a wedding to plan, a half-paid honeymoon in Maui, and a fiancée who had already chosen baby names for our future children.
I had stress, yes: deadlines, bills, a mother (Cary) who texted me every hour with grocery lists and new supplements “for my health.” “Ward, you work too much,” she’d say. “I’m proud of you, but I’m worried. Supplements and good food from now on, okay?”
So yes, stress. But it was normal, predictable stress.
Then Cary was killed in a car accident on her way to buy birthday candles for Oona and Blythe’s tenth birthday. Just like that, every piece of my adult life vanished under the weight of sudden parenthood.
The seating chart? Forgotten. The save-the-dates? Still unprinted. The espresso machine we registered for? Canceled.
I went from oldest son to only parent. From designing foundations to becoming one for two little girls who had nowhere else to go.
Our father, Sutton, had walked out the day Cary told him she was pregnant with twins. I was almost fifteen. We never heard from him again. So when Cary died, there was no one else.
I moved back into her house that same night. I left my apartment, my coffee grinder, everything I thought made me an adult.
I tried my best. But Jana made it look easy.
Two weeks after the funeral she moved in “to help.” She packed school lunches, braided their hair, sang lullabies she found on Pinterest. When Blythe wrote Jana’s name and number in her glittery notebook as another emergency contact, Jana wiped away a tear and whispered, “I finally have the little sisters I always dreamed of.”
I thought I was the luckiest man alive. I was so wrong.
Last Tuesday I came home early from a site inspection. The sky was heavy and gray, the kind of day that feels like waiting for bad news.
The house looked peaceful: Oona’s bike on the lawn, Blythe’s muddy gardening gloves lined up neatly on the porch rail. I let myself in quietly, not wanting to wake anyone if they were napping.
The hallway smelled like cinnamon buns and craft glue.
Then I heard Jana’s voice from the kitchen: low, sharp, icy.
“Girls, you are not staying here much longer, so don’t get too comfortable. I’m not wasting the last good years of my twenties raising someone else’s kids. When the social worker comes for the final adoption interview, you will tell her you want to leave. Understand?”
Silence. Then a small, choked sob.
“If you cry again, Blythe, I swear I’ll take every single one of your notebooks and throw them in the trash. Grow up.”
“But we don’t want to leave,” Oona whispered. “We want to stay with Ward. He’s the best brother in the world.”
“You don’t get to want anything,” Jana snapped. “Go do your homework. In a few weeks you’ll be gone and I can get back to my wedding planning.”
I heard bare feet running upstairs, a door slam.
Then Jana’s voice changed completely: light, laughing, talking on the phone.
“They’re finally gone. Karen, I’m losing my mind playing perfect step-mom all day… Once he legally adopts them they’re his problem forever, not mine. I just need the house and Cary’s insurance money in my name. After that I don’t care what happens to those brats. I’ll make their lives miserable until he signs everything over, and the naïve idiot will think it was his idea all along.”
I backed out the front door without a sound, hands shaking.
I drove around the block until I could breathe again, bought pizza so everything would look normal, and walked back in smiling.
That night, after the girls were asleep, I sighed and ran a hand over my face.
“Jana… maybe you were right. Maybe I can’t do this alone. Maybe we should let a real family adopt them. They deserve a proper mother, not… substitutes.”
Her eyes lit up like I’d handed her the world.
“Oh honey, that’s so mature. It’s what’s best for everyone.”
“And you know what?” I added. “Losing Cary made me realize life’s too short. Let’s not wait anymore. Let’s get married: this weekend, big wedding, everyone invited, fresh start for us.”
She screamed yes.
By Friday she had booked a downtown hotel ballroom, sent invitations to two hundred people, and posted ring photos captioned “Our forever starts now.”
Saturday night the ballroom sparkled: white linens, floating candles, Jana glowing in lace like she already owned the night.
She gave a little speech about love and family.
I stepped forward, took the mic, and smiled.
“Actually, we’re not just here for a wedding. We’re here for the truth.”
I clicked the remote.
The giant screen lit up with black-and-white footage from Cary’s old nanny cams.
Jana’s real voice filled the room.
“I’m not raising someone else’s leftovers… I’ll make their lives miserable until he gives in… then the house and money will be mine…”
Gasps. A glass shattered.
Another clip: her threatening Blythe’s notebooks, telling the girls to lie to the social worker.
Oona and Blythe stood on either side of me in their pale-green dresses, holding wildflower bouquets they had picked themselves.
Jana went white. “That’s out of context—”
“I heard it live,” I said quietly. “And I recorded the rest.”
“You can’t do this to me, Ward! Not in front of everyone!”
“I just did. Security, please.”
Her father shook his head and walked out. Her mother stared at the floor.
By morning the video was everywhere. Jana’s tearful “I was misunderstood” post drowned under thousands of comments calling her exactly what she was.
Three nights later she showed up barefoot on the porch, mascara running, screaming my name. I watched through the peephole until the police took her away.
The restraining order was filed the next day.
A week later the adoption was finalized. In the judge’s chambers Oona cried soft tears while signing her new papers. Blythe handed her a tissue and whispered, “We’ll never be separated now.”
That night we made spaghetti. Blythe stirred the sauce. Oona danced around the kitchen waving the parmesan like a microphone. We played their music loud.
When we sat down, Oona touched my wrist.
“Can we light a candle for Mommy?”
We did. Blythe whispered something private to the flame.
Then she leaned against me.
“We knew you’d choose us.”
I couldn’t speak. The tears just came.
They didn’t say anything. My little sisters simply stayed there, one on each side, small hands resting on my arms like anchors.
We were broken, but we were whole. We were safe. And for the first time in six months, we were truly home.