Overnight, I went from an engineer to a 25-year-old guardian and father-figure.

My fiancée, Jenna, moved in to “help.” She made snacks. She braided their hair. She said, “I finally have the two little sisters I always wanted.”

What a fool I was.

Last Tuesday, I came home early. The moment I stepped inside, I heard her voice — not sweet, but ICE-COLD.

“Girls, you won’t be here much longer. I’m not wasting my twenties raising you. You WILL say at the adoption interview that you want ANOTHER family.”

My blood turned to ice.

“Don’t you dare cry,” she hissed. “Go do your homework. Hopefully, you’ll be gone soon.”

Then I heard her on the phone:

“They finally left… Karen, I can’t deal with this. I just need him to sign the property papers. Once he adopts them, they’ll become OUR problem. So they need to go. The house and the insurance must be OURS.”

I nearly threw up.

I slipped back outside, sat in the car, shaking… and then it hit me: no confrontation. Not yet. She needed to expose herself — publicly.

I came back cheerful.

“Hey, honey! I’m home!”

That evening I played the idiot.

“Jen… maybe you’re right. Maybe… I should just let the girls go.”

Her eyes LIT UP.

“Oh, baby, that’s the BEST decision.”

Then I added casually: “Let’s get married. Sooner rather than later.”

“YES! This weekend!”

For the next few days she bragged and planned a massive hotel celebration.

Meanwhile… I was planning something else.

At the banquet, with her family, my friends, my mother’s friends, and my sisters sitting right there — Jenna grabbed the microphone.

“Thank you all for coming! Today we celebrate love, family, and—”

I touched her shoulder.

“Actually, sweetheart… I’ll take it from here.”

Silence.

I held up a SMALL BLACK REMOTE.

— This evening isn’t about us. It’s about the truth.

I clicked the button.

Behind us, on the giant screen, a video started playing.

It was our hallway camera.

There was Jenna — no sweet smile, no gentle tone. Her face was sharp, stern, eyes frozen with contempt.

She leans toward Lily:

“You will say you want another family. Or you’ll regret it.”

A collective gasp filled the room.

Next clip — her call to Karen:

“I just need him to put me on the deed. The house will be mine. After that, we get rid of the little brats.”

I clicked pause.

The silence in the hall became almost physical.

Jenna’s mother stared at her like she didn’t recognize her own daughter. Her uncle covered his face with his hands. Her brother pushed his chair away.

I said quietly — but everyone heard:

— When my mom died, I was terrified. I didn’t know how to move forward. But I knew one thing: my girls will never lose another parent figure again. Not ever.

I turned to the room:

— I am their family. I’m not giving them up. Not to anyone.

Lily and Maya sat together — eyes wet, but steady. For the first time, they didn’t look uncertain. They looked safe.

Jenna jumped up:

“This is out of context! I was stressed! You can’t—”

Someone shouted:

“You threatened children.”

Another voice:

“You tried to throw orphans out of their home for insurance money?”

She scanned the room for a supporter — desperately.

But no hand reached out.

I stepped closer and said, quietly:

— We’re not getting married. This ends now.

Her lips trembled.

“You… you ruined my life…”

But the truth is — she ruined it herself.

I just pressed “play.”

I turned to the twins:

— Let’s go home.

Their small hands found mine. Held tightly.

And for the first time since my mom’s death… I felt something like calm clarity:

We are a family.

And no one will take that away.