When our mother died, I was twelve years old. Hospitals have a particular silence after tragedy — the kind that smells faintly of antiseptic and finality. I remember standing in that quiet, unsure where to look or who would guide me next. My sister was nineteen. In the weeks that followed, she made a choice that did not come with applause or ceremony. She left her university courses. She folded her ambitions neatly and placed them aside. Without speeches or declarations, she stepped into adulthood faster than anyone should have to. She became steady. While others her age prepared for...
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