This Isn't Home (Yet)

This Isn't Home (Yet)

He never planned to become a father.
Not at eighteen, not with so much left broken in his own life.
But when she vanished-left the child, the hospital, everything behind-he stayed. Because someone had to.

Now, years later, he's the quiet man at the end of the street, eyes heavy with too many sleepless nights, carrying more than he should.
They're not his by blood.
They're far from easy.
Each one holds a storm beneath their skin.
One won't speak, trapped in silence louder than words.
One can't sleep, haunted by shadows no one else sees.
Another runs away, chasing freedom from ghosts only he feels.
They flinch at loud noises, break down over the smallest things, carry scars no one understands.
No one else wanted them.
So he did.

He works late, forgets to eat, hasn't dreamed in years-only the quiet ritual of tucking them in, whispering words they pretend not to hear, keeps him going.
Every morning, he packs lunches and forces a smile that only one of them ever believes.

People ask why he does it-why he takes in children "too damaged," "too difficult," "too far gone."
He never answers.
Because maybe he doesn't know.
Maybe it's because he couldn't save himself back then.
So now, he tries to save them.

This isn't a perfect family.
It's haunted. Fragile. Broken.
But it's still home.
Not yet the home they dream of-
but maybe, just maybe, it's the beginning.