When my parents died in the fire, I thought survival meant keeping the boys fed, housed, and breathing. I didn’t understand that the real battle would be for their sense of worth. Caleb and Liam had already lost everything; Joyce made them feel like they were a burden I’d eventually drop. Her visits left them quieter, flinching at footsteps, asking whether I’d still want them when they were “too much.”
The night she announced they were being “sent away,” Mark’s jaw set in a way I’d never seen. On his birthday, with cake on the counter and the twins listening from the hall, he slid the suitcases toward her and said, “They’re not leaving. You are.” Shock turned her face brittle, but he didn’t waver. We drew a hard line and chose the boys without apology. Since then, our home has felt lighter, their laughter louder, and the word “family” finally means what it always should have.
