When my mother died, I didn’t just lose a parent—I inherited a life I hadn’t planned for and two fragile hearts that suddenly depended on mine. Six months earlier, I was 25, a structural engineer with spreadsheets, deadlines, and a future neatly mapped out. A wedding was coming. A honeymoon in Maui was half paid. My fiancée, Jenna, was already planning baby names and nursery paint colors for a life that hadn’t yet begun. Life was stressful, yes, but manageable.
Then my mother, Naomi, was killed in a car accident while buying birthday candles for my ten-year-old twin sisters, Lily and Maya. Overnight, everything familiar vanished. I went from brother to guardian. From designing foundations to becoming one. Wedding plans stalled. The registry was canceled. I moved back into my mother’s house, leaving behind routines and the illusion that adulthood is something you assemble before responsibility arrives.
Our father had disappeared years earlier. There was no safety net. Just three of us, left standing in the aftermath of loss. I was drowning quietly.
Jenna arrived two weeks after the funeral. She packed lunches, learned braids, found lullabies online. She made it all look effortless. When Maya wrote Jenna’s name as an emergency contact in her notebook, Jenna cried and said she’d always wanted little sisters. I thought I had been given grace in human form. I didn’t know I was watching a performance.
Then came the day I walked in early from work. The sky was heavy, the house seemed calm—but Jenna’s voice cut through, sharp and cold. “Girls, you’re not going to be here much longer. Don’t get too attached. A foster family would be better. When the adoption interview comes, you’ll tell them you want to leave. Understand?”
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