After Dad died, I had spent six years holding that house together.
I was nineteen when he collapsed in the backyard while watering plants. One moment he was laughing at one of my terrible driving jokes. By evening, he was gone.
After the funeral, Vanessa returned to college because being at home was “emotionally draining.”
I stayed.
I postponed my future.
I picked up extra shifts.
I learned how to stretch every dollar until it hurt.
I paid bills, fixed broken appliances through online tutorials, and sat awake outside my mother’s room during nights she cried herself to sleep.
Vanessa called when she needed something.
Money for rent.
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