When my older brother boasted that his wife was expecting their fifth child, my parents rejoiced as if we had just won the lottery. My father beamed and said, “Well done, my boy,” but my mother’s gaze locked immediately onto me. “You’ll take care of the children,” she instructed, as though my life was theirs to spend.

Five years later.

The backyard of our house was bathed in the warm, golden light of a summer evening. The grill was smoking, sending the smell of barbecue through the air.

Tommy, now fifteen, was throwing a football with David on the lawn. Lily was showing off her gymnastics routine to Sarah, my former lawyer who had become one of my closest friends. Sam and Emma were chasing the dog through the sprinkler, shrieking with pure, unadulterated joy.

I stood on the patio, holding five-year-old Noah on my hip, watching the scene before me.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the screen. It was an email notification from the state prison system. Liam’s parole hearing was coming up, and I was being notified as the victim of record.

I didn't feel a spike of fear. I didn't feel anger. I simply swiped the notification away and deleted the email. Liam and Chloe were strangers to us now. The kids knew the truth, delivered in age-appropriate therapy, and they had no desire to reconnect with the people who had abandoned them.

My parents had moved to Florida, living out their days in bitter isolation. They sent a Christmas card once a year. I threw it in the trash unopened.

David jogged up to the patio, wiping sweat from his forehead. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, kissing my cheek.

“Burgers are almost done,” he said, smiling down at Noah. “You hungry, buddy?”

“Yeah!” Noah cheered.

I leaned back against David’s chest, taking a deep breath of the summer air. Chloe had once sneered at me, telling me I didn't have a real family, that taking care of her discarded children was just "practice."

She was right about one thing. It had been practice. Practice for loving fiercely, for setting boundaries, and for fighting for the people who truly mattered.