Daniel stood on the other side of the bed.
“We will,” he said. “I swear.”
She smiled once—her last smile.
Days later, we stood in court. The judge looked exhausted. So did we.
“Do you understand the responsibility you’re taking on?” she asked.
Daniel nodded.
“Yes.”
“So do I,” I said.
The gavel fell. And just like that, at eighteen, we stopped being siblings who had lost a mother.
We became parents.
The years after that blurred together—less like time passing and more like constant survival.
Daniel and I enrolled in community college because it was the only realistic option. Close. Flexible. Barely affordable. We planned everything at night over the kitchen table.
Continue on the next page:
