At 18, I Fought to Keep My 7 Siblings Together—Then One Photo Exposed the Truth About Our Parents
“Everyone… sit down,” I said.
Phoebe’s voice trembled. “Where are Mom and Dad?”
I opened my mouth.
But nothing came out.
A few days later, reality hit harder.
Ms. Hart from child services sat at our kitchen table, a thick folder in front of her like a sentence already decided.
“The children will need temporary placement,” she said gently.
“Together?” I asked.
She didn’t answer right away.
She didn’t have to.
“No.”
From the hallway, Lila let out a small, broken sound.
I clenched my hands. “They just lost their parents.”
“I know, Rowan.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “If you knew, you wouldn’t be talking about splitting them up like they’re objects.”
Her voice softened. “You’re only eighteen. You don’t have a stable income. The house is behind on payments—”
“I’ll figure it out,” I cut in. “I’ll work. I’ll learn. Just… don’t separate them.”
She sighed. “Love isn’t always enough.”
“Then help me learn what is,” I said. “But don’t take them away from each other.”
For illustrative purposes only
Court was even worse.
Aunt Denise arrived dressed like she already owned the outcome. Uncle Warren stood beside her, holding a folder like proof of victory.
“I care deeply about the children,” she told the judge, dabbing at dry eyes. “But Rowan is still a child himself. I can take the youngest two until things stabilize.”
Phoebe clutched Lila’s arm.
I couldn’t stay quiet.
“The youngest two?” I said. “Do you even know their names?”
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