I raised my niece on my own — eight years later, she pointed at a woman in the next beach changing cubicle and whispered, “Aunty, look… she has my mark”

fire during the night.

The casket remained closed.

I buried my sister on a gray morning and went home with a toddler who still reached for a mother I couldn’t give back to her.

From then on, Ruth was mine in every way that counted. I signed school forms, taught myself to cook from videos, and sat through fevers, nightmares, lost teeth, and birthdays where continue reading …