Nothing.
Mom faded slowly. Her voice softened. Her steps grew weaker. I slept in a chair beside her hospital bed while Daniel stayed home with the kids. One night, she reached for my hand.
“Promise me something,” she whispered.
“I promise,” I said, not yet knowing what.
“Don’t let them take the kids away. Keep them together.”
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.
“If I take morning classes, I can do school drop-off,” I said.
“Okay,” Daniel replied. “Then I’ll work early and be back by three for pickup.”
“And Liam has a dentist appointment Thursday.”
“I’ll move my shift.”
Every choice revolved around the kids.
If one of us had exams, the other stayed home. If one worked extra hours, the other handled dinner, homework, baths, and bedtime stories. I waitressed nights and weekends. Daniel worked construction mornings and stocked shelves overnight when money got tight.
Sometimes we passed each other at dawn.
“You going to sleep?” I asked once.
“Eventually,” he said.
We survived on caffeine and adrenaline.
The kids never saw the fear. They had lunches packed. Clean clothes. Birthday cakes—even if they were lopsided. One year, Sophie hugged me after blowing out candles.
“This is the best birthday ever,” she said.
I turned away so she wouldn’t see my tears.
Slowly, life improved. We finished our degrees. Found steady jobs. The house felt lighter.
Then one Saturday morning, there was a knock.
I opened the door—and froze.
The man who abandoned five children stood there.
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