My sister raised me after our mom passed away. She was twenty, barely more than a kid herself, and I was thirteen—angry, scared, and convinced the world had already taken everything from me.
I remember the day Mom died more clearly than any exam I ever took. The hospital smelled like antiseptic and cold floors. When the doctor spoke, I heard the words but didn’t understand them. It was my sister, Emma, who held my shoulders and said, “I’ve got you. I promise.”
She meant it.
Emma dropped out of college the next semester. She told everyone it was temporary, that she’d go back once things settled. Things never settled. She worked two jobs—sometimes three—waiting tables in the morning, stocking shelves at night, sewing on weekends. She learned how to stretch soup for a week and how to smile when the power was cut off again.
