There were six girls in my family. When my youngest sister turned one, my father sat at the kitchen table and announced, “I’ve met someone.”
My mom looked at him. “What does that mean?”
He didn’t flinch. “It means I want something different.”
“You have six daughters,” she said.
He shrugged. “I’m not saying I won’t help.”
That was a lie. Within a week, he was gone.
My mom carried us alone after that. She worked nonstop. I was old enough to help with the little ones, so I did. We learned quickly—how to stretch meals, do laundry in batches, and stop expecting him to show up.
Then, while I was in college, Mom was diagnosed with cancer. I went from classes to work to hospital visits, learning how to smile for my sisters even when I was sick with fear. A year later, she died. I was 22. The youngest was seven.
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