I’m 21 years old.
That’s not supposed to be the age where you’re signing permission slips, packing lunches, and worrying about whether a ten-year-old feels safe at school.
But life doesn’t ask what you’re ready for.
After our parents died in a car accident two years ago, everything changed overnight. One day I was a college freshman with plans, deadlines, and a messy dorm room. The next, I was standing in a quiet hospital hallway, holding my little sister’s hand while she asked me if Mom and Dad were coming back.
They didn’t.
So I became everything Robin had left.
For illustrative purposes only
I dropped out. Picked up two jobs. Learned how to cook more than instant noodles. Learned how to braid her hair—badly at first, better over time. Learned how to smile even when the rent notice sat unopened on the counter.
And somehow… we kept going.
Robin never asked for much.
That’s what made it harder.
A few weeks ago, she mentioned—almost casually—that the girls at school all had those colorful, trendy jackets. The kind with soft fabric, bright designs, and little details that made them stand out.
She didn’t say she wanted one.
But I saw the way her fingers lingered on the picture in a store flyer.
I knew.
