As my mom got can.cer, my dad chose another woman and disappeared. At 18, my twin brother and I became parents to our three younger siblings. Five years later, our father showed up at our door like nothing happened — and demanded something that left us in sh0ck.

My name is Anna, and I’m a twin.

Daniel and I were twenty-four by the time life slowed enough for us to catch our breath. But when everything truly collapsed, we were only eighteen—fresh out of high school, still debating dorm prices, still naïve enough to think adulthood came with guidance and safeguards.

There were five of us children. Daniel and me first, then Liam, followed by Maya, and finally Sophie. At the time, the younger three were nine, seven, and five. They were small, noisy, endlessly hungry, and full of questions that had no real answers.

“Can you pick me up early tomorrow?”

“Is Mom coming home tonight?”

“Why is Dad being weird?”

Nothing was fine, but they didn’t know that yet.

The diagnosis came on a Tuesday. I remember because Mom made pancakes that morning and apologized for burning them.

“I’ll do better tomorrow,” she said, forcing a smile.

By Friday, we were in a dull office with beige walls while a doctor spoke words I barely understood but instantly despised. Cancer. Aggressive. Treatment.

Daniel squeezed my knee beneath the table. Dad stayed quiet, distracted by his phone.

Three days later, Dad gathered us in the living room.

“I’ll keep this short,” he said. That alone should have warned me. He didn’t sit. He stood by the door, already halfway gone.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” he admitted. “For a while.”

Maya gasped. Sophie climbed into Mom’s lap. Liam stared at the floor.

“I can’t do this,” Dad continued. “I’m not strong enough to watch her get sick. I deserve some happiness too.”

Daniel jumped up.

“So what, you’re just leaving?”

Dad shrugged.

“I’m going to live with her. She gives me love and joy. I can’t live in constant sadness.”

Mom didn’t cry. Somehow, that hurt more.

“What about the kids?” I asked.

He looked at me like I was being unreasonable.

“You’re adults now. You’ll figure it out.”

Then he packed a bag. No hugs. No promises. No plan. The door shut, and something inside our home closed forever.

After that, he disappeared.

No calls. No birthdays. No money.

No texts asking about treatment.

Nothing.

Mom faded slowly. Her voice softened. Her steps grew weaker. I slept in a chair beside her hospital bed while Daniel stayed home with the kids. One night, she reached for my hand.

“Promise me something,” she whispered.

“I promise,” I said, not yet knowing what.

“Don’t let them take the kids away. Keep them together.”

Daniel stood on the other side of the bed.
“We will,” he said. “I swear.”

She smiled once—her last smile.

Days later, we stood in court. The judge looked exhausted. So did we.

“Do you understand the responsibility you’re taking on?” she asked.