“They’re a mistake,” he said coldly. “Look, I’ll sign whatever papers you need. If you want to take them, fine. But don’t expect me to be involved.”
I hung up before I said something I’d regret.
An hour later, Derek arrived with his lawyer. He signed temporary guardianship papers without even asking to see the babies. He looked at me once, shrugged, and said, “They’re not my burden anymore.” Then he walked away.
Josh watched him go. “I’m never going to be like him,” he said quietly. “Never.”
We brought the twins home that night. I signed papers granting temporary guardianship while Sylvia remained hospitalized. Josh set up his room for them, even buying a second-hand crib with his own savings.
“You should be doing homework,” I said weakly. “Or hanging out with friends.”
“This is more important,” he replied.
The first week was hell. The twins—Josh had already named them Lila and Mason—cried constantly. Diaper changes, feedings every two hours, sleepless nights. Josh insisted on doing most of it himself.
“They’re my responsibility,” he kept saying.
“You’re not an adult!” I’d shout, watching him stumble through the apartment at 3 a.m., a baby in each arm. But he never complained.
Weeks passed. Josh missed school, his grades slipped, his friends stopped calling. Derek never answered another call.
