When my dad called to invite me and my 12-year-old brother to his wedding, I thought the worst part would be witnessing him marry the woman who tore our family apart. What I didn’t expect was that my quiet little brother had been quietly preparing something that would make their “special day” unforgettable.
I’m 25 now, working as a marketing coordinator, still stumbling through adulthood after having my childhood cut painfully short.
He used to be the gentlest, happiest kid I knew. The kind of boy who left cookies out for delivery drivers and teared up when cartoon characters got hurt.
“Tessa, look what I made for Mom,” he’d say, proudly holding up a crayon drawing or a wobbly clay sculpture from school.