I was twelve years old when our mother died.
I can still remember the sharp scent of disinfectant in the hospital corridors and the way my sister stood at the funeral—upright, composed, as though sheer posture could hold grief at bay. She was only nineteen. Barely an adult. Yet from that day forward, she became everything I had.
She quietly withdrew from college without telling anyone. Took on two jobs. Learned how to turn a short grocery list into meals that somehow lasted all week. Learned how to smile through exhaustion so convincingly that even I believed her when she said, “We’re going to be okay.
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