I was twelve when our mother died, an age when the world still feels solid and permanent, until suddenly it doesn't. I clearly remember the hospital corridor. The strong smell of antiseptic. The whirring of the overhead lights. The way the adults spoke in hushed tones, as if the silence itself could soothe the pain.
But what I remember most is my sister.
She stood beside me at the funeral, her back straight, her shoulders erect, her eyes dry. She was nineteen, barely a teenager, but something changed in her that day. While everyone else crumbled, she remained still. Strong. Unbreakable.
In an instant, she became my mother, my protector, and my only support.
He never announced it. There were no dramatic promises. He simply stepped forward and did what he had to do. Quietly.
She dropped out of college without telling anyone. She got two jobs. She learned how to stretch her grocery list far beyond what was needed. I learned how to transform exhaustion into a smile so convincing that even I believed her when she said, "We're going to be okay."
And, in a way, we were.
Or at least, that's what I told myself.
