When my mother died, I didn’t just lose a parent.
I inherited a life I hadn’t planned for—and two fragile hearts that suddenly depended on mine.
Six months earlier, I had been a 25-year-old structural engineer with spreadsheets, deadlines, and a future neatly arranged. A wedding was on the horizon. A honeymoon in Maui was half paid. My fiancée, Jenna, had already started talking about baby names and paint colors for a nursery that didn’t yet exist.
“James, you work too much,” Jenna used to say, handing me another vitamin bottle. “I’m proud of you. I just want you to live a long life with me.”