"Soon," I whispered.
Even though I already knew it wasn't true.
The months that followed tested every part of me.
I worked construction during the day.
Stocked shelves at a grocery store during the evening.
Delivered newspapers before sunrise.
Sleep became a luxury.
There were mornings when I couldn't remember the last full meal I'd eaten.
But my daughters always had breakfast.
Always had clean clothes.
Always knew someone would be waiting after school.
Six Different Personalities
Each daughter grieved differently.
Adele, the oldest, became quiet.
At thirteen, she suddenly acted like another adult in the house.
She helped cook dinner.
Read bedtime stories.
Watched over her younger sisters whenever I worked late.
She sacrificed much of her own childhood without ever complaining.
Emma expressed her pain through anger.
She slammed doors.
Argued over everything.
Pretended she didn't care.
But late at night, I sometimes found her crying into her pillow.
Grace became determined.
"If Mom doesn't want us," she once said, "I'll become someone impossible to ignore."
Sophia buried herself in books.
Lily turned every difficult day into a drawing.
The youngest, Chloe, barely remembered her mother at all.
To her, I had always been both Mom and Dad.
The Small Victories That Matter Most
People often imagine heroism as something dramatic.
In reality, heroism is ordinary.
It's learning how to braid six different hairstyles before seven in the morning.
It's figuring out which daughter likes pancakes and which prefers oatmeal.
It's sitting through dance recitals after working sixteen-hour shifts because your child scans the audience looking only for you.
It's sewing Halloween costumes when money is tight.
