I was twelve years old when our mother passed away, an age when the world still feels solid and permanent, until suddenly it doesn’t. I remember the hospital corridor clearly. The sharp smell of antiseptic. The buzzing lights overhead. The way adults spoke in hushed voices, as if silence itself could soften grief.
What I remember most, though, is my sister.
She stood beside me at the funeral, back straight, shoulders squared, eyes dry. She was nineteen, barely more than a teenager herself, yet something in her changed that day. While everyone else fell apart, she became still. Strong. Unmovable.
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