When Tori’s parents left her and her two little brothers, her life was shattered. Years later, after she has finally put the pieces back together, they suddenly return, acting like nothing happened. What do they want after all this time?
I watched in shock as my parents rushed around the living room, packing their things without hesitation.
“We’ll call child services, and they’ll take you away,” my father said coldly.
My little brothers, Lucas and Ben, held onto me, their faces full of fear and confusion.
“Tori, what’s happening?” Lucas asked, his big eyes filled with tears. He was only six, and it broke my heart.
“I don’t know, Lucas,” I whispered, hugging him tightly. “But it’ll be okay. I promise.”
But I was only 15, and the truth was, I had no idea what was going on.
Ben, just five years old, started sobbing. “I don’t want to go, Tori. I want to stay with you.”
My heart shattered.
I wanted to protect them, to keep us together, but I felt helpless. How could I stop parents who were supposed to love us but had chosen to leave us instead?
The doorbell rang, and my stomach dropped.
It was Child Protective Services, just like Dad had warned. A woman with a kind face walked into the living room and introduced herself, but I could barely hear her. My mind was spinning.
“I’m here to help,” she said gently, but it felt like my whole world was falling apart. “I know this is hard, but we need to take you somewhere safe.”
Lucas held onto me even tighter, and I pleaded, “Please, don’t take us away. We can stay here. We’ll be good.”
The woman’s expression softened, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Tori. It’s not my decision.”
Tears ran down my face as they led us out of the house. Lucas and Ben cried too, gripping my hands until we were pulled apart. It felt like my heart was being ripped in two.
We were sent to different foster homes, and as I watched them disappear through the back window of the car, I felt completely broken.
The next few months were filled with sadness and loneliness. My foster home didn’t feel warm—not because of the temperature, but because Mr. and Mrs. Thompson hardly spoke to me. To them, I was just another responsibility, another burden.
I spent most of my days in silence, washing dishes and doing chores, feeling more like a worker than a child who needed care.
But the worst part was not knowing where my little brothers were or if they were okay. I missed them so much. I needed them.
The loneliness became unbearable. One day, I packed a small bag and ran away. I didn’t get far before the police found me and took me back. The Thompsons were furious, scolding me like I was just a troublemaker they regretted taking in.
But I didn’t care. I ran away again. And again. Until one night, I left for good.
I ended up living on the streets, finding shelter in an old, abandoned trailer. It wasn’t much, but at least I was free. I did small jobs to survive—washing cars, carrying groceries—anything to earn a little money. Life was tough, but I was determined.
The hardest part was knowing Lucas and Ben were out there somewhere, and I couldn’t be with them. I tried to visit, but they kept moving from home to home, and it became impossible to find them.
The last time I tried to see Ben, I knocked on the door of his foster home, only to be told they had moved out of state. It felt like my heart had been shattered all over again.
But I refused to give up. I worked hard, saved every penny, and eventually put myself through community college. It wasn’t easy—working during the day and studying at night—but I did it.
I graduated with a degree in business administration and got a job as a store assistant. Over time, I worked my way up and eventually became the store manager.
I was proud of how far I had come, but the pain of my past never really went away. No matter what I achieved, I couldn’t forget what I had lost.
One day, there was a knock on my door. When I opened it, I saw the last people I ever expected—my parents.
Charles and Linda stood there, smiling like nothing had ever happened, suitcases in hand.
“Hello, darling!” my mother said cheerfully, as if we were simply picking up where we left off.
I stood there, frozen. After all these years, they had the nerve to show up, acting like they hadn’t abandoned us.
“Can we come in?” my father asked casually, still smiling, as if they had any right to be here.
Still in shock, I stepped aside and let them in. They sat in my kitchen like we were a normal family, like they hadn’t torn my life apart. I made coffee, my mind racing with questions, but they didn’t waste time.
“We were hoping you could let us stay here for a while,” my mother said sweetly. “Just until we get back on our feet.”
I stared at them in disbelief. “You want to live with me?”
“Yes,” they answered at the same time.
I couldn’t hold back my anger any longer. “You want my help after what you did? You abandoned us! Where were you when we needed you? Where was your help then?”
They looked stunned, but I wasn’t finished.
“You haven’t even asked about Lucas or Ben. Do you even care what happened to them?”
Silence.
I walked out of the kitchen and returned with something from my room. I handed them an old ten-dollar bill—the last thing my father ever gave me before they disappeared from my life.
“Here,” I said coldly. “This is all I have left to give you. Now, get out of my house. And don’t ever come back.”
Their smiles faded as my words sank in. Without another word, they gathered their things and left.
As the door shut behind them, I felt an unexpected sense of relief, like a weight had been lifted. My past no longer controlled me. I had built my life on my own, and I didn’t need them.
I stood by the window, looking out at the world, ready for whatever came next.