Overnight, I went from being 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 dreamed of.”

I had no idea how blind I was.

Last Tuesday, I came home earlier than usual. The moment I stepped through the door, I heard her voice — and it wasn’t sweet. It was cold as steel.

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

My veins froze.

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

Then I heard her calling someone on the phone:

“They finally left… Karen, I can’t do this anymore. I just need him to sign the property papers. Once he adopts them, they’ll legally be his problem, not mine. So they have to go. The house and the insurance need to be OURS.”

I felt sick.

I slipped back outside, sat in my car, shaking… and then it clicked: not yet. No fight. Not inside closed walls. She needed to expose herself — in public.

I walked back in, cheerful.

“Hey, honey! I’m home!”

That evening, I played along.

“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 said it:

“Let’s get married. Soon.”

“YES! This weekend!”

She spent days bragging, planning a fancy hotel celebration, telling everyone how amazing life was about to be.

Meanwhile… I prepared something else.

At the banquet, surrounded by her family, my friends, my mother’s friends, and my sisters — Jenna grabbed the microphone.

“Thank you all so much for being here! Today we celebrate love, family, and—”

I gently touched her shoulder.

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

The room fell silent.

I held up a small black remote.

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

I clicked the button.

Behind us, a video flickered to life on the big projector screen.

Our hallway camera.

There was Jenna — no kindness in her face. Just hard edges and sharp eyes.

She leans toward Lily:

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

A wave of horrified murmurs filled the room.

Next clip — her call to Karen:

“I just need him to put me on the deed. Once I get the house, we can get rid of the little brats.”

I paused the video.

The silence that followed was brutal.

Jenna’s own mother stared at her like she didn’t recognize her daughter. Her uncle rubbed his forehead as if fighting nausea. Her brother shifted away from her, like her shame might be contagious.

I spoke quietly:

“When my mom died, I was terrified. But I knew one thing with absolute certainty — Lily and Maya will never lose another protector. Not as long as I’m here.”

I turned to the guests:

“I’m their family. I’m keeping them. That’s final.”

The girls squeezed each other’s hands, tears in their eyes — but not from fear. From relief.

Jenna shot to her feet:

“This is out of context! I was stressed! I didn’t mean—”

Someone in the crowd shouted:

“You threatened children.”

Another voice:

“You tried to throw orphans out of their home.”

She looked around for sympathy — desperately.

But every face was closed to her.

I stepped closer and said:

“We aren’t getting married. This is done.”

Her voice cracked:

“You… you ruined everything…”

But the truth is — she destroyed it herself.

All I did was press “play.”

I turned to the twins:

“Let’s go home.”

Their small hands slid into mine. Held tight.

And for the first time since my mother died… I felt steady. Grounded.

We are a family.

And no one will ever tear that apart.