I Returned Home from Work to Find My Adopted Twin Daughters, 16, Had Changed the Locks and Kicked Me Out

Thirteen years ago, my husband Andrew died in a car crash, revealing his secret double life: another woman killed alongside him, and their twin 3-year-old daughters, Carrie and Dana. Devastated by his betrayal—especially after my infertility struggles and miscarriages—I adopted the girls anyway, seeing their vulnerability at the funeral.

The early years were tough. They were wary, whispering about being sent away. Money was tight; mac and cheese was a staple, but I poured love into them. At 10, I told them the truth about their father’s lies. They were shocked, angry, calling me a pity adopter. Teenage years brought cruel barbs: “Our real mom wanted us!” I endured, hoping they’d heal.

At 16, I came home to find the locks changed, a note saying they needed space, my suitcase outside. Heartbroken, I stayed with Mom for a week, doubting everything.

Then Carrie called: “Come home?” I rushed back to a transformed house—fresh paint, gleaming floors. The girls had worked secret jobs to renovate, turning their old nursery into my dream office. “You chose us despite the pain,” they said, tearful. “You’re the best mom.”

Hugging them, I whispered, “You saved me.” We’ve always known love.