Josh broke down—raw, unguarded. And I saw it: he wasn’t just my son anymore. He was someone who had chosen to carry what most adults would run from.
Days later, Sylvia died. She left everything to us—a note, a trust, a plea to care for her children.
Josh read it, then looked at the twins.
“We’re going to be okay,” he said.
And somehow, I believed him.
A year has passed.
Our apartment is louder now, messier, full of life. Josh is seventeen. He gave up football, friends, the carefree teenage years he deserved. But he doesn’t regret it.
“They’re not a sacrifice,” he tells me. “They’re my family.”
Sometimes I worry. Sometimes I wonder if we chose right.
But then I see Lila reach for him first. Or Liam fall asleep holding his finger.
And I know.
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