A stranger at the grocery store grabbed me and yelled, “Those are my kidnapped kids you’re raising!”

“I know you’re scared, baby, but Elizabeth is taking good care of you, right?”

“I don’t want Elizabeth!” Mia wailed.

“I want you and mommy! When is mommy coming back?”

That question destroyed me because I had no answer. Vanessa was gone, probably forever.

And I was being removed from their lives despite being the only parent they actually remembered.

“You need to be brave,” I told Mia, crying so hard I could barely speak.

“Be brave for me and for your sister. Can you do that?”

Mia just cried harder. And then the social worker took the phone back.

“We need to go,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

They kept the girls at Elizabeth’s house for three nights. According to the daily reports I received, they cried constantly the first night, most of the second night, and intermittently by the third.

Elizabeth was patient and loving, trying everything to comfort them, but she was a stranger to them, and no amount of toys or kindness could change that fact.

When they brought the girls back for our next supervised visit, both of them looked exhausted. Mia ran to me immediately, but Olivia hung back, looking confused.

“Did you have fun at Elizabeth’s house?” I asked, trying to sound positive.

Olivia nodded slowly.

“She has a puppy,” she said.

“A small one that licks my face.”

My heart sank because that was exactly the kind of thing that would win over a three-year-old. Elizabeth was smart, bringing in elements that would help the girls bond with her.

It was the right thing for her to do, but it felt like watching my daughters being slowly taken from me piece by piece. The psychologist pulled me aside after that visit.

“The overnight went better than expected by the third night,” she said.

“The girls are starting to adapt. We’re going to extend the next stay to five nights.”

Five nights became a week. A week became two weeks.

Each time they came back for our supervised visits, the girls seemed slightly more comfortable with Elizabeth and slightly less desperate for me.

Olivia started calling her Lizzy instead of Elizabeth or “the lady.” Mia brought me drawings she’d made at Elizabeth’s house of a dog and a woman with yellow hair.

“Lizzy says I can name the puppy,” Mia told me excitedly.

“I want to call it Sparkles.”

I smiled and said that was a beautiful name, even though inside I was dying. My daughters were building a new life with their biological mother, and I was becoming a memory.

Detective Nuan called me after six weeks of the girls living primarily with Elizabeth.

“We found Vanessa,” she said.

“In Canada. She was working at a restaurant under her false identity. But someone recognized her from the news coverage.”

Finally, after all this time.

“When will she be extradited?” I asked.

“Probably within the week. She’ll face multiple charges including kidnapping, child endangerment, and fraud. She’s looking at serious prison time.”

Part of me felt vindicated that Vanessa would face consequences, but another part just felt hollow. Punishing her wouldn’t undo the damage or give me back my daughters.

The trial happened four months later. I had to testify about what I knew and when I knew it.

Vanessa’s lawyer tried to paint me as a willing participant, but the evidence I’d provided—the journal, the hidden documents, the texts—all proved I’d been deceived.

Vanessa barely looked at me during my testimony. When she took the stand in her own defense, she claimed she’d saved the girls from neglectful parents.

She said Elizabeth had been drinking at the lake that day and that’s why the girls had wandered off alone. She’d convinced herself she was rescuing them.

The prosecution destroyed her story with evidence that Elizabeth had been completely sober and had only looked away for a moment to get sunscreen from her bag.

Vanessa had stalked them for days, waiting for that exact opportunity. The jury found her guilty on all counts.

The judge sentenced her to twenty years in prison. As they led her away, Vanessa finally looked at me.

“I loved them,” she said.

“I love those girls more than anything.”

“They weren’t yours to love,” I said back.

And that was the last time I ever spoke to her. Elizabeth was granted full custody officially after the trial.

My visitation rights were reduced to once-a-month supervised visits. The psychologist said this was best for the girls’ emotional stability.

They needed to fully bond with Elizabeth without the confusion of having two parents. I disagreed, but I had no legal standing.

I wasn’t their biological father. I wasn’t their adoptive father anymore, since that had been based on fraudulent documents.

I was nobody to them legally. The monthly visits were torture.

Each time, the girls seemed more settled with Elizabeth and less connected to me. After six months, Olivia started calling Elizabeth mommy.

Mia still called her Lizzy but talked about her constantly during our visits.

“Lizzy took us to the zoo,” Mia would say.

“Lizzy makes the best pancakes.”

Each story felt like a knife twisting. I was being replaced, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

My therapist said I needed to accept that the best thing for the girls was to move forward with their biological mother. Trying to maintain a presence in their lives might actually harm their development.

But how was I supposed to accept losing my daughters? After a year of monthly visits, Elizabeth approached me before one of our sessions.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” she said carefully.

“The girls are doing well now. They’re happy and adjusted. Maybe it’s time to let them move on completely.”

My stomach dropped.

“You want to end the visits?”

“I think it might be better for them,” Elizabeth said, and she actually sounded sympathetic.