After I said no, my entitled brother sent his kids in a taxi to my former address, not realizing I had already moved. The new tenant made a quick phone call that set off consequences my brother never saw coming and I watched everything unravel.

“I suspected that,” Marcus replied calmly. “They’re on my porch with backpacks. The driver left. One of them keeps asking when you’ll open the door.”

Shame and fury rushed through me at once.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “My brother must have sent them.”

“I’ve already contacted the non-emergency police line,” Marcus said. “Officers are coming. I didn’t want them thinking you were missing, so I found your name from mail in the box.”

In the background, I heard a small voice say, “Dad said Aunt Em would be here.”

Then sirens.

Jason’s name flashed on my screen. I ignored it and called Marcus back instead. He was the only adult behaving responsibly.

“Please stay with them,” I said.

“I will,” he answered. “They’re not the problem.”

When officers arrived, Marcus put me on speaker so I could confirm my identity, explain that I no longer lived there, and give them Jason’s contact information. An officer asked if I had proof I refused to babysit.

I did.

I emailed screenshots immediately: Jason’s message—“Kids will be there at 1”—and my reply—“No. Do not bring them.”
Jason left two voicemails. The first was pure rage, demanding I “fix this.” The second was panic: “Don’t let them take my kids.”

As if sending them alone in a taxi to the wrong address was harmless.

Forty minutes later, an officer called. The children were safe inside Marcus’s house. The incident, however, was being documented as possible abandonment. Child Protective Services had been notified.

I drove to the station.

Maddie ran into my arms, holding herself together by sheer will. Noah stood quietly behind her, clutching his backpack.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered—because none of this was their fault.