My initial reaction was that I had finally lost my sense of reality when 16-year-old Josh entered the house holding two newborn babies. My name is Jennifer, and I am 43 years old. A demanding five-year master class in survival has shaped my life. Derek, my ex-husband, had not simply abandoned us; he had methodically destroyed our life, taking away all of the material and psychological stability we had established, leaving Josh and I to fend for ourselves in a world that seemed more and more meaningless.
Standing in the middle of our tiny two-bedroom apartment close to Mercy General Hospital was Josh, a young man who had been harboring a silent, aching wish for his father’s return for years. Against the background of our living room, the hospital blankets wrapped around the little bundles—a girl and a boy—were striking.
Josh said, “I’m sorry, Mom,” in a voice full of determination that seemed much older than his years. “I was unable to abandon them.”
All of my previous notions about our obligations to the past were disproved by the story Josh told. Josh had seen his father rushing out of the maternity unit earlier that Tuesday as he was escorting a friend to the ER. Josh learned the truth out of a desperate curiosity: Sylvia, Derek’s girlfriend, had recently given birth to twins. Derek had just left after hearing about the medical issues and the fact that there were two infants, saying he didn’t want anything to do with them.
Sylvia was twenty-five years old, completely alone, and suffering from an infection that was growing quickly. Josh had persuaded the hospital personnel and a family friend in labor and delivery that he was the ideal choice for these kids in an act of profound empathy. A temporary release had been signed by Sylvia, who was drowning in physical pain and misery.
Josh protested, “They’re my siblings, Mom,” when I first demanded that we take them back. “They enter the system if we don’t assist. They part ways. They don’t have anyone.
The conflict moved to the hospital, where we discovered Sylvia’s condition worsening and her linked to IVs. The enormity of the situation became clear. Derek was chillingly constant when I contacted him, expecting for some semblance of humanity. He told me over the phone, “They’re a mistake.” “Don’t expect a dollar or a call, but I’ll sign the paperwork. They are no longer a burden to me.
As promised, Derek showed up with a lawyer, gave us his parental rights without even looking at the babies, and left our lives for good. With a chilly clarity, Josh watched him go. He swore, “I will never be like him.” “Never.”
The ensuing weeks were a haze of lack of sleep and the unpolished realities of caring for an infant. Josh gave them the names Mason and Lila. He spent his nights pacing the floor with a baby in each arm after using his little earnings to purchase an old crib, all the while his social life and academic pursuits faded. With a sense of responsibility that his father had never had, I saw my teenage son grow into a guardian.
Three weeks in, however, was the real test. We had to rush back to the emergency room after Lila developed a fever. A congenital cardiac abnormality that required costly, urgent surgery was the devastating diagnosis. I had worked double shifts and saved tips for Josh for five years to build up a college fund, and the expense threatened to deplete every cent of it.
Josh’s eyes were filled with everything as he gazed at me. He didn’t need to inquire. I said to him, “We’re doing this.”
The procedure involved walking hospital hallways for six hours. Josh sobbed from the bottom of his heart as he fell into a chair when the surgeon eventually came out to tell us the procedure was successful. We got the last bit of information—that Sylvia had died—in the peaceful aftermath of that triumph. She had designated us as her permanent guardians in her last moments. “Josh taught me the true meaning of family,” she wrote in her benediction. He kept them alive.
Strange things kept turning throughout the world. Derek lost his life in an automobile accident on Interstate 75 three months later. Josh just asked if it made a difference when I informed him. No was the response. From the time he left his kids behind, Derek had been dead to us.
One year has gone by since that transformative Tuesday. Two children’ constant requests, toys, and laughter have turned our apartment into a chaotic haven. Josh is entering his senior year at the age of 17. To make sure Mason and Lila had a secure home, he gave up football and the usual adolescent milestones. In order to be near his “squad,” he has changed his college plans to a nearby community institution.
I still feel guilty when I see him because of the childhood he gave up. However, I see a guy who prioritized love over convenience when I watch him dozing off on the floor between the two cribs, his fingers clenched into small, trusting fists. Trauma and a teen’s refusal to go have bound our family of four together. A year ago, my son came in with two infants and a brief explanation. Not only did he cure them, but he also saved our family’s soul by redefining what it is to be a man.