I dropped my plans for college, worked nonstop, and learned everything the hard way—bottles at 3 a.m., tight budgets, doctor visits, school forms. The girls grew up calling me “Bubba,” and I promised they’d never feel abandoned.
Seven years later, Lorraine came back—polished, smiling, loaded with expensive gifts. For a moment, I thought she wanted to make things right. Then a letter arrived from an attorney. She was filing for custody.
When I confronted her, she didn’t say she missed them. She said, “I need them.” Not for love—for her image. The twins overheard everything. They cried, clung to me, and begged not to go.
So I fought. I hired a lawyer, brought every record and receipt, and filed for full guardianship and retroactive child support. In court, her team tried to paint me as controlling. But the evidence didn’t lie—and neither did the girls. They chose me.
The judge ruled in our favor. Lorraine was ordered to pay monthly support, and she disappeared again.
Now I’m 25, working part-time, taking night classes, and finally chasing the dream I buried. The twins tell me, “We’ll help you like you helped us.” And for the first time, I believe it: we’re going to be okay.