HE SAID I WASN’T ‘FIT TO BE A FATHER,’ – BUT I RAISED THOSE KIDS FROM THE BEGINNING.
When my sister Maya went into labour, I was in another part of the region – at a motorbike festival. She begged me not to cancel the trip, saying it would be okay, that she still had time.
There was no time.
Three beautiful babies were born – and she herself did not survive.
I remember holding those tiny, squirming lumps in the neonatal intensive care unit. I still smelled of petrol and leather jackets. I had no plan, no idea what to do. But I looked at them – at Rita, Bella and Kirill – and realised: I wasn’t going anywhere.
I traded night drives for night feedings. The guys at the workshop covered for me so I could pick up the kids from daycare on time. I learnt how to braid Bella’s pigtails, how to calm Rita’s tantrums, how to persuade Kirill to eat something other than pasta and butter. I stopped going on long-distance raids. Sold two bikes. Built bunk beds with my own hands.
Five years. Five birthdays. Five winters with flu and intestinal infections. I wasn’t perfect, but I was there for you. Every single day.
And then, there he was.
The biological father. He wasn’t on the birth certificate. He never visited Maya while she was carrying the babies. According to her, he said triplets were ‘not his lifestyle.’
But now? He wanted them.
And he didn’t come alone. I brought with me a social worker named Marina. She just looked at my oil-stained overalls and declared that I was ‘not a suitable long-term developmental environment for these children’.
I couldn’t believe my ears.
Marina walked through our small but clean house. Saw the kids’ drawings on the fridge. The bicycles in the yard. Little boots by the door. Smiled politely. Made notes. I noticed her gaze linger a little longer on the tattoo on my neck.
The worst part was that the kids didn’t realise anything. Rita hid behind me. Kirill cried. Bella asked: ‘Is this uncle going to be our new daddy now?’
I said: “No one will take you away. Only through the courts.”
And now… the hearing’s in a week. I’ve got a lawyer. A good one. Crazy expensive, but it’s worth it. My shop’s barely afloat because I’m carrying everything by myself, but I’d sell the last key to keep the kids.
I didn’t know what the court would decide.
The night before the hearing, I couldn’t sleep. I sat at the kitchen table, holding a drawing of Rita – me holding their hands, us standing in front of our cabin, and a sun and clouds in the corner. A simple childish smear, but honestly, I looked happier in that drawing than I ever had in my life.
In the morning, I put on the button-down shirt I hadn’t taken out since Maya’s funeral. Bella came out of the room and said: ‘Uncle Dan, you look like a church uncle.’
‘Let’s hope the judge likes church uncles,’ I tried to joke.
The court seemed like a different world. Everything was beige and shiny. Vin sat across the room in an expensive suit, looking like a concerned father. He’d even brought a picture of the triplets in a store-bought frame, as if that proved something.
Marina read out her report. She didn’t lie, but she didn’t try to smooth things over. She mentioned ‘limited educational resources,’ ‘emotional development issues,’ and of course – ‘lack of traditional family structure.’
I clenched my fists under the table.
Then it was my turn.
I told the judge everything. From the moment I got the call about Maya, to the moment Bella threw up on my back during the long drive and I didn’t even flinch. I told about Rita’s speech delay and how I got a second job to pay for a speech therapist. Told how Cyril had finally learnt to swim because I promised him a burger every Friday if he didn’t give up.
The judge looked at me and asked: ‘Do you really feel you are capable of continuing to raise three children on your own?’
I swallowed. Thought about lying. Then I didn’t.
‘No. Not always,’ I said. “But I do it. Every day, for five years now. I haven’t done it because I have to. I’ve been doing it because they’re my family.”
Vin leaned forward, like he wanted to say something. But he remained silent.
And then there was a twist.
Bella raised her hand.
The judge looked surprised, but said: ‘Young lady?’
She stood on the bench and said: “Uncle Dan hugs us every morning. And when we have nightmares, he sleeps on the floor next to our bed. And one day he sold his motorbike to fix our heating. I don’t know what kind of dad he is, but we already have one.”
Silence. Dead silence.
I don’t know if that solved everything. Maybe the judge had already decided everything for himself. But when he finally said: ‘Custody is reserved for Mr Desmond Fomin,’ I exhaled for the first time in years.
Vin didn’t even look at me as he left. Marina nodded at me – barely perceptibly.
That night I made cheese toast with tomato soup, the kids’ favourite. Bella danced on the kitchen table. Kirill was miming a lightsaber with a butter knife. Rita pressed herself against me and whispered: ‘I knew you’d win.’
And in that moment, despite the greasy kitchen and all the fatigue, I felt like the richest man on earth.
Family isn’t about blood. It’s about those who stay. Over and over again. Even when the going gets tough.
If you believe that love makes a person a parent – share this story. Someone may really need it today. ❤️
