I Raised My Sister’s Son Like My Own
When my sister Kayla showed up unannounced with a baby on her hip, asking me to watch him “just for a couple weeks,” I agreed without hesitation.
I thought she just needed a break, but after she left, I never saw her again. Only vague texts, leading nowhere, until one day, an envelope arrived: a birth certificate with no father or name—just Kayla listed as the mother. I named him Liam, after our grandfather, and raised him as my own.
What started as temporary turned into sleepless nights, doctor visits, and school plays. Fifteen years passed, and Liam grew into a kind teenager. Then, on his sixteenth birthday, Kayla returned with gifts and promises of a better life. Liam left with her, no goodbye, just a text. I grieved, living alone in silence for five long years.
Then one rainy evening, Liam knocked on my door, older and tired. Kayla had kicked him out. I let him in, and slowly, we began to rebuild. When he thanked me, I said, “That’s what family does.” And for the first time in years, it felt true.
