I wanted to shout, to tell him to take them back immediately, but when I looked down at the babies, so fragile and helpless, the words caught in my throat. The little girl opened her eyes for a moment, and something inside me broke.
We returned to the hospital together. Kara lay in a private room, her skin gray, her breath shallow. When she saw us, tears streamed down her face. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know where else to turn. Brian said he was done. Please don’t let them end up in foster care.”
I could barely speak. “We’ll keep them safe for now.”
Over the next few days, Kara’s condition worsened. The infection spread despite treatment. Liam spent hours by her bedside, feeding the twins and talking softly to her. When she drifted in and out of consciousness, she would reach for his hand and say, “Thank you for being their brother.”
A week later, she passed away.
The hospital called me that morning. Kara had signed papers naming me and Liam as guardians. I sat at the kitchen table, reading the official seal at the bottom of the page, and felt both grief and terror. I was a single mother with barely enough income to pay rent. Now two newborns depended on us.