I Returned Home from Work to Find My Adopted Twin Daughters, 16, Had Changed the Locks and Kicked Me Out
It was supposed to be just another ordinary evening. After a long, exhausting shift at work, I was eager to get home, kick off my shoes, and enjoy a quiet dinner. But as I pulled into the driveway, something felt off. The porch light was off — unusual, since I always left it on. When I tried to unlock the front door, my key didn’t fit. Confused, I tried again, jiggling the key in disbelief. That’s when it hit me: the locks had been changed.
I knocked, thinking perhaps there’d been some emergency repair I hadn’t been informed about. After a few moments, the door opened just a crack, and I was met with the tense, defiant faces of my 16-year-old adopted twin daughters.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice shaky.
One of them, her eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and fear, said, “You’re not welcome here anymore.”
I was stunned. My heart pounded as I tried to process what was happening. These were the girls I had raised since they were infants, who I had rocked to sleep, comforted through nightmares, and cheered for at school plays and soccer games. And now, they were standing behind a locked door, shutting me out of my own home.
“Please, let me in. Let’s talk,” I pleaded.
But they wouldn’t budge. They said they were “taking back control” and that I needed to “find somewhere else to stay.” Through the door, they threw out a small bag with some of my personal belongings — a toothbrush, my phone charger, and my wallet. It felt surreal, like a bad dream I couldn’t wake up from.
I spent the next few hours sitting in my car, trying to piece together how things had come to this. I thought of the recent arguments — about curfews, friends I didn’t approve of, their slipping grades. I had been stricter lately, hoping to guide them back on track. I didn’t realize the resentment had grown so deep.
Eventually, I called the police. They arrived and spoke to the girls, who insisted I had no right to enter “their” house anymore. Legally, of course, the home is mine, and the officers explained that to them. But seeing how hurt and angry they were, I couldn’t bring myself to force my way inside that night.
Instead, I went to stay at a friend’s house, heartbroken and bewildered. I love my daughters deeply, and I know they must be struggling with something far bigger than just teenage rebellion. Now, I’m trying to figure out the next steps — counseling, mediation, anything that might help heal this rift.
I never imagined the day would come when I’d be locked out of my own home by the very children I dedicated my life to. But I’m determined not to give up on them — or on our family.
