Almost 12 years ago, our parents passed away.
They were crossing the street in broad daylight, on a pedestrian crossing, when a drunk driver hit them. And just like that, we lost both of them at once.
Noah was nine back then, trying to act older than he was. Jake followed him everywhere, repeating whatever Noah said like it made it true. Maya cried at night for months. Sophie clung to my arm whenever I left the room. And Lily… she was just a baby who didn’t understand why everything had changed.
I learned fast. I figured out how to stretch grocery money, keep routines steady, and make sure my siblings felt safe. I stayed up through fevers, showed up to every school meeting, and made sure no one felt alone.
And just like that, we lost both of them at once.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing that I had built my entire life around them without leaving space for myself. I didn’t regret it. Not once.
I believed I had raised them right. I believed that love, consistency, and showing up every single day had shaped them into good people. That belief remained solid for years… until that afternoon.
My boyfriend, Andrew, stood in my doorway, pale and terrified.
“Brianna,” he said. “You need to look at this.”
