I never thought I would be raising two babies before I was even old enough to vote. But life doesn’t wait for you to feel ready. It doesn’t ask permission. It just happens. When my mom walked out, I didn’t get time to panic or think things through.
I stepped up. And years later, when she came back, she returned with a plan that almost destroyed everything I had built.
I’m 25 now. And no, I never planned on becoming a dad at 18—especially not to newborn twin girls.
Back then, I was just a high school senior named Nathan. I lived in a rundown two-bedroom apartment with my mom, Lorraine. The place always smelled faintly of old coffee and dust, and the walls were thin enough to hear the neighbors argue at night.
Lorraine had always been unpredictable. She was the kind of person who changed moods like the weather—warm and loving one moment, sharp and stormy the next. Living with her felt like standing outside during strong wind, never sure which way it would hit you.
I never planned on becoming a dad at 18.
Some days, my mom could be gentle. She’d make dinner, hum to herself, and ask about my day. On other days, she acted like the world owed her something, and somehow I was the one expected to pay for it. If something went wrong, it was never her fault. It was always mine, or someone else’s.
Then one day, she came home and announced she was pregnant.
I remember standing in the kitchen, staring at her, thinking—maybe this would change things. Maybe this would ground her. Maybe having a baby would give her something steady to hold on to.
I was wrong.
She was furious. Furious at the world. Furious at the man who had left her. Furious that being pregnant didn’t suddenly make her the center of attention like she thought it would.
She was angry all the time.
She never told me who the father was. I asked once. Then twice. After the second time, she screamed at me to “mind my damn business,” slamming the fridge door so hard the magnets fell off. She muttered under her breath about how men always disappeared and left women to clean up the mess.
I stopped asking.
When she gave birth to twin girls—Ava and Ellen—I was there in the hospital room. I held one tiny hand while the other baby cried, and I felt something shift inside me. Something serious. Something heavy.
For about two weeks after they were born, Lorraine 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 collapse on the couch and sleep straight through the crying. The girls would wail, their little faces red, and I’d stand there frozen, not knowing what to do.
I tried to help where I could, but I was still a kid myself. I did homework at the kitchen table while rocking a baby with my foot. I stayed up late Googling things like “how often do newborns eat” and “is it normal for babies to cry this much.”
I kept wondering—is this normal?
And then one night, she was just… gone.
No note. No call. Nothing.
I woke up at 3 a.m. to a screaming baby and an empty apartment. Lorraine’s coat was missing from the hook, but everything else was still there—her clutter, her smell, her chaos. It was like she’d evaporated.
I stood in the kitchen holding Ellen while Ava screamed from her bassinet, and this cold, sharp 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 had ever known.
She left no note.
I didn’t get to decide whether to step up. There was no long debate. No moment of choice. I dropped the idea of joining the pre-med program. I had wanted to be a surgeon since I was 11, ever since I watched a heart transplant documentary with my grandpa.
That dream stayed taped to my wall for years—until it didn’t.
Now I was an 18-year-old father of two, with college brochures gathering dust on my desk.
So I stayed.
I worked every job I could find. Warehouse shifts at night. Food delivery during the day. I stacked boxes until my back screamed. I drove through snowstorms because diapers and formula weren’t optional. Rent didn’t wait. Bills didn’t care how tired I was.
I learned how to stretch a $30 grocery run into a full week. I learned which programs to apply for, which thrift stores had the best kids’ clothes, and how to smile politely when people looked at me like I was a mistake.
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 hold one baby on my hip while the other screamed until she fell asleep. People told me to let the system handle it. To give them up.
But I couldn’t stand the idea of my sisters growing up in a 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 push a cart through the grocery store with one kid on each arm, and I’d hear whispers behind me. But none of that mattered when they curled up on my chest during movie nights. Or when they drew pictures of “me, my sister, Bubba, and our house,” like we were the luckiest family alive.
As they slept on me, I made a promise: they will never feel abandoned.
For a while, I believed we were okay. That the worst was behind us.
Then, seven years later, Lorraine came back.
It was a Thursday. We had just gotten home from school when there was a knock at the door. I opened it without thinking.
At first, I didn’t recognize her.
Then my stomach dropped.
She looked… polished. Designer coat. Perfect makeup. Jewelry that probably cost more than a month of rent. She glanced at me like she wasn’t sure who I was.
“Nathan,” she said flatly.
Then she heard the girls’ voices.
Her whole tone changed. She smiled. Pulled out shopping bags.
“Girls, it’s me… your mom! Look what I brought you!”
Inside were things I could never afford. A tablet. A necklace. A stuffed toy Ellen had once pointed at on TV.
The girls looked confused. Hopeful.
Lorraine started coming around more. Always with gifts. Always sweet.
Then the letter came.
A lawyer’s letter. Custody papers.
She wanted them.
When I confronted her, she didn’t even flinch.
“It’s time I did what’s best for them,” she said calmly. “You’ve done enough.”
“You left them,” I said. “I raised them.”
“I need them,” she replied.
Not I love them. Not I missed them.
“I need them.”
The girls heard everything.
Ava cried. Ellen stood still and said, “You don’t want us. Bubba stayed.”
They ran to me.
“You’re our real parent,” Ava sobbed.
Lorraine’s face hardened. “You’ll regret this,” she said, and walked out.
So I fought.
I brought evidence. Records. Witnesses.
The judge ruled in my favor.
The girls were mine.
Lorraine had to pay child support.
After that, I finally breathed.
I slept. I ate. I laughed.
The dream came back.
I started night classes.
One night, Ellen asked, “Is that doctor school?”
“You’re gonna do it,” she said. “You always do.”
So here we are.
I’m 25. I’m their dad. I’m chasing an old dream with tired hands and a full heart.
Lorraine sends checks. No notes.
And I don’t feel angry anymore.
She wanted a redemption story.
But I got something better.
Proof that I was enough.