I’m 25 now, and when people hear I became a parent at eighteen, they usually assume an accident or a bad decision. The truth is far heavier. I never planned to raise children—especially not two newborns who weren’t mine. I was a high school senior living with my mother, Denise, in a rundown apartment. She was unpredictable—warm one day, distant and resentful the next. When she told me she was pregnant, I hoped it might ground her. It didn’t. The pregnancy only fueled her anger, especially after the father disappeared. When the twins, Lila and Rowan, were born, Denise tried to play mother in short bursts, then vanished for hours. I helped however I could, balancing homework with night feedings, terrified I was doing everything wrong.

Then one night, I woke to the babies screaming. Denise was gone. No note. No message. Just empty space. Standing there with two crying newborns, I understood one thing clearly: if I didn’t take care of them, no one would. So I stayed. I dropped my college plans, worked multiple jobs, and learned how to survive on exhaustion and determination. People told me to call social services or give them up, but I couldn’t imagine them growing up thinking no one fought for them.