At just fifteen, I became a parent—not by choice, but because my own parents abandoned me and my little brothers, Lucas and Ben. One day they simply packed up, muttering that child services would “take care of us,” and left. Lucas was six, Ben only five. Their tiny hands clung to mine as I promised it would be okay, though I had no idea how.
But when Child Protective Services arrived, we were torn apart—three siblings scattered into different foster homes. I endured years of instability, clinging to the hope of being reunited. The moment I turned eighteen, I fought for custody. It cost me everything I had, but I won. We rebuilt our lives slowly, learning to laugh again, to feel safe again.
Then, years later, they showed up—our parents. Smiling, preaching about how they’d “found God,” asking to reconnect. But their eyes carried no remorse, only entitlement. They wanted back into a family they had destroyed.
I listened. I let them speak. But I didn’t let them in. Forgiveness is earned, not demanded. The three of us had already built a home from the ruins they left behind. That door remains closed—not out of bitterness, but out of love for the life we chose for ourselves.
