I never thought I’d be raising two babies before I was even old enough to vote, but life didn’t wait for me to feel ready. When my mom walked out, I didn’t have time to panic or complain—I had to step up. Years later, when she came back, she had a plan that almost tore everything we’d built apart.
I’m 25 now, and I still shake my head sometimes when I think about how my life started. I never planned on becoming a dad at 18—especially not to newborn twins.
Back then, I was just a high school senior named Nathan, living in a run-down two-bedroom apartment with my mom, Lorraine. The place always smelled faintly of old cooking oil and dust, and the heater only worked when it felt like it.
My mom had always been unpredictable. She was one of those people who felt like a sudden gust of wind—here one moment, gone the next, never steady for long.
Some days, she was sweet and gentle, brushing my hair back and asking about school. On other days, she acted like the world owed her something, and I was the one stuck paying the price. Living with her was like walking on cracked ice. You never knew which step would break it.
Then one day, she came home pregnant.
I remember standing in the kitchen, my backpack still on the floor, thinking maybe—just maybe—this would ground her. Maybe having a baby would give her something solid to hold onto.
I was wrong.
She was furious. Furious at the world, furious at the man who disappeared, and furious that being pregnant didn’t bring her the attention she thought it would. She snapped at strangers, yelled at the TV, and slammed doors so hard the walls shook.
She never told me who the father was. I asked twice. The second time, she screamed at me to “mind my damn business,” and I never asked again. That night, she slammed the fridge door and muttered, “Men always leave women to clean up the mess.”
When she gave birth to twin girls—Ava and Ellen—I was there at the hospital, holding one tiny hand while the other slept in a clear plastic bassinet. For a moment, I thought things might change.
For two weeks, she pretended to be a mom. That’s the only way I know how to describe it.
She’d change a diaper, then disappear for hours. She’d warm a bottle, then fall asleep on the couch while the babies cried. I tried to help, but I didn’t know what I was doing. I was still a kid myself, sneaking homework in between night feedings and wondering if this level of exhaustion was normal.
And then, one night, she just vanished.
No note. No phone call. Nothing.
I woke up at 3 a.m. to a screaming baby and an empty apartment. My mom’s coat was gone, but everything else—her mess, her smell, her chaos—was still there. I stood in the kitchen holding Ellen while Ava screamed from her bassinet, and a cold panic settled into my bones.
“If I fail them, they die,” I thought.
It sounds dramatic now, but at that moment, it was the truest thing I’d ever known.
I didn’t get to choose whether to step up. It wasn’t really a choice. I dropped the idea of joining the pre-med program. I’d wanted to be a surgeon since I was 11, ever since I watched a documentary about heart transplants with my grandpa.
Now, instead of college brochures, I had diaper coupons and formula cans on my desk.
I stayed.
I worked every job I could find—warehouse shifts at night, food delivery during the day. I stacked boxes until my arms shook, drove through snowstorms, and picked up every extra shift because diapers, formula, and rent didn’t wait.
I learned how to stretch a $30 grocery cart through an entire week. I figured out which assistance programs to apply for and where to find secondhand clothes that still looked new. I gave up my teenage years to become someone’s anchor.
I learned how to warm bottles at 3 a.m. with shaking hands. How to bounce one baby on my hip while the other screamed herself hoarse. People told me to let the system handle it, but I couldn’t stand the idea of my half-sisters growing up in some stranger’s house, wondering why no one fought for them.
The girls started calling me “Bubba” before they ever said “brother.” The name stuck. Even their preschool teachers used it.
I’d carry them through the grocery store, one in each arm, and people would whisper like I was some kind of warning story. But none of that mattered when they curled up on my chest during movie nights or drew stick-figure pictures labeled, “Me, my sister, Bubba, and our house.”
They’d fall asleep on me, and I’d whisper promises into the dark: You will never feel abandoned.
For a while, I truly believed we were okay. That we’d survived the worst.
Then, seven years later, Lorraine came back.
It was a Thursday. We’d just gotten home from school when someone knocked on the door. I wiped my hands on my jeans and opened it without thinking.
At first, I didn’t recognize her. Then my stomach dropped.
The woman standing there looked polished. Designer coat. Perfect makeup. Jewelry that probably cost more than a month of our rent. She barely made eye contact.
“Nathan,” she said, like she wasn’t sure that was my name.
Then she heard the girls’ voices and changed instantly. Her face softened into a fake smile, and she pulled out shopping bags from a luxury store.
“Girls, it’s me… your mom! Look what I brought, babies!”
Inside were things I could never afford—a tablet, a necklace Ava stared at in awe, and a stuffed toy Ellen had once pointed at on TV.
The girls looked confused and hopeful all at once. Because kids still want to believe their parents will come back and make things right.
Lorraine kept coming back. Ice cream trips. Big smiles. Too much laughter. And then the letter came.
A thick white envelope. Gold trim. Inside was a letter from an attorney, full of cold words like custody and guardianship.
She wanted full custody.
When I confronted her, she didn’t even flinch.
“It’s time I did what’s best for them,” she said. “You’ve done enough.”
“You left them,” I said. “I raised them. I gave up everything!”
“I need them,” she replied flatly.
That’s when the girls walked in and heard everything.
“You don’t want us,” Ellen said quietly. “You left us.”
Ava sobbed, “Bubba stayed. Bubba takes care of us!”
They clung to me, Ava crying into my shirt. “You’re our real parent.”
Lorraine’s face hardened. “You’ll regret this,” she said before walking out.
I didn’t fight her with anger. I fought her with truth.
I filed for full guardianship and retroactive child support. Court was brutal, but I brought proof—records, witnesses, and years of love.
The judge ruled in my favor.
The girls were mine. Completely.
Lorraine had to pay child support. Real support. No more pretending.
After that, I finally breathed. I dropped one job. I slept. I laughed.
And the dream came back.
Late at night, I looked at nursing and pre-med programs. One night, Ellen caught me.
“Is that doctor school?” she asked.
“Kind of,” I said.
“You’re gonna do it,” she said. “You always do.”
Ava nodded. “We’ll help you.”
I cried harder than I ever had.
So here we are.
I’m 25. I’m a dad to two incredible girls. I’m working part-time, taking night classes, and chasing an old dream with tired hands and a full heart.
Lorraine sends checks now. No notes. No visits.
And I’m not angry anymore.
She wanted to use them as props.
Instead, she gave me proof that I was enough.