Six months ago, my biggest worries were deadlines, parking tickets, and whether our wedding playlist had too many 80s songs.
I was 25, a structural engineer, engaged, and living a life of carefully planned routines. My mom, Naomi, texted grocery lists and supplement reminders like it was her full-time job.
“James, you work too much,” she’d say. “I want you healthy. No more living on coffee.”
Stress was normal, manageable. Then, a Tuesday afternoon changed everything. My mom was gone—hit by a car while buying birthday candles for my twin sisters’ 10th birthday.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just a son or a fiancé. I was the only parent for two terrified little girls, Lily and Maya. Overnight, my carefully ordered life became chaos. Wedding plans? Forgotten. Apartment? Abandoned. Espresso machine? Canceled. My life was now theirs.
Jenna, my fiancée, seemed ready to help. She moved in, packed lunches, braided hair, learned their routines. She even cried when Maya wrote “JENNA (emergency)” on her notebook. I thought she’d be perfect—my mom would have loved her.
But last Tuesday shattered that illusion.
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