I was eight when my dad passed away. One moment, my world was full of his laughter and steady hands on my bike; the next, it was silence and a house that felt too big. My mom tried to hold it together, but grief hollowed her out.
Less than a year later, she remarried. Her new husband never hid his disdain for me. A week after a quiet conversation with my mom, I was sent into foster care. She didn’t cry. I did enough for both of us.
Fifteen years passed. Then, one afternoon, a girl knocked on my door. Nervous, clutching her backpack, she said softly, “I’m your sister.”
She handed me a letter from our mother. It confessed her mistakes, begged forgiveness, and urged me to be there for my sister, now fourteen, before it was too late.
I looked at her—trembling, alone, trying to be brave.
I stepped forward and hugged her.
For the first time in my life, I chose family.