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.

The criminal conviction made the family court proceedings a mere formality. Because Liam and Chloe were both going to serve significant prison time—Liam got six years, Chloe got four, plus time in a psychiatric facility—their parental rights were officially terminated by the state.

My parents tried to file for custody, but the forensic audit had ruined them. The court saw the paper trail of financial manipulation and the police report from the school incident. They were deemed unfit.

On a bright Tuesday morning, the judge signed the final decree. I was officially granted permanent legal guardianship and adoption rights for Tommy, Lily, Sam, and Emma, as well as the new baby, a little boy named Noah, who had been born while Chloe was in custody and placed immediately into my care.

When I walked out of the courthouse holding the adoption papers, Sarah, my lawyer, gave me a massive hug.

“You did it, Maya. You saved them.”

“We did it,” I corrected, smiling through my tears.

In the parking lot, I saw my mother standing by her car. She looked frail, the luxurious arrogance she used to wear completely stripped away. She took a step toward me.

“Maya,” she whispered. “Please. Can I just see a picture of the new baby?”

I stopped. I looked at the woman who had demanded I sacrifice my life for her golden boy. I felt a twinge of human pity, but it was heavily outweighed by my duty to protect my children.