“Room 314. But Jennifer, you should know… she’s not doing well. The infection spread faster than we anticipated.”
My stomach turned. “How bad?”
Her expression said everything.
We rode the elevator in silence. Josh carried the babies like he’d done it all his life, whispering softly when they fussed.
Sylvia looked worse than I imagined—pale, almost gray, hooked up to IVs. She couldn’t have been more than 25. Tears filled her eyes when she saw us.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I didn’t know what else to do. I’m all alone, and I’m so sick, and Derek…”
“I know,” I said quietly. “Josh told me.”
“He just left. When they told him it was twins, when they told him about my complications, he said he couldn’t handle it.” She looked at the babies. “I don’t even know if I’m going to make it. What happens to them if I don’t?”
Josh spoke before I could. “We’ll take care of them.”
“Josh…” I started.
“Mom, look at her. Look at these babies. They need us.”
“Why?” I demanded. “Why is this our problem?”
“Because nobody else is!” he shouted, then lowered his voice. “Because if we don’t step up, they’ll go into the system. Foster care. Separated, maybe. Is that what you want?”
I had no answer.
Sylvia reached out a trembling hand. “Please. I know I have no right to ask. But they’re Josh’s brother and sister. They’re family.”
I looked at the babies, at my son who was barely more than a child, and at this dying woman.
“I need to make a call,” I said finally.
I called Derek. He answered on the fourth ring, annoyed. “What?”
“It’s Jennifer. We need to talk about Sylvia and the twins.”
Pause. “How do you know about that?”
“Josh was at the hospital. He saw you leave. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Don’t start. I didn’t ask for this. She told me she was on birth control. This whole thing is a disaster.”
“They’re your children!”
“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.
Then one night, everything changed. I came home from work to find Josh pacing, Lila screaming in his arms. “Something’s wrong. She won’t stop crying, and she feels hot.”
Her forehead burned. “Get the diaper bag. We’re going to the ER.”
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