After the funeral, my grandmother took us in.
She was a strong woman—tired, but strong. I could see it in her eyes, in the way she held herself even when grief weighed on her shoulders like an anchor. She had already lost a son—my uncle, years ago. Now, she had lost her daughter too. And yet, she still had the strength to take care of us.
The house was small, not meant for so many people, but she made space. She cooked for us, woke us up for prayer, and reminded us to have sabr, patience. I knew she was trying to keep us together, trying to stop us from breaking apart.
But I was already broken.
Every day, I went to the hospital to see my little brother. He was only five at that time. Too young to be lying in a bed, unconscious, with tubes attached to his small body.
I sat by his side, holding his tiny hand in mine.
"Hey," I whispered, my voice hollow. "I came again."
No reaction.
His chest rose and fell slowly, the machines beeping steadily in the background. I had learned to hate that sound. It reminded me that he was alive, but barely.
I talked to him about anything and everything. About how our grandmother was doing, about how school was starting soon but I didn't care, about how I still hadn't cried since the accident.
About how I felt like I wasn't real anymore.
Sometimes, the nurses would come in and look at me with pity, telling me to go home and rest. I never listened.
I was scared.
Scared that if I left, he would disappear too.
***
While I was drowning in silence, my older brothers were drowning in something else—desperation.
Money was tight. My grandmother tried her best, but there were too many mouths to feed, too many hospital bills piling up. And without my mom's support, without her working day and night to keep us afloat, everything started falling apart.
I knew my brothers were worried. I saw it in the way they whispered when they thought I wasn't listening. In the way they avoided my eyes, as if I would see the weight of our situation reflected in them.
Then, one day, I noticed something change.
They had new clothes. A new phone. Money in their pockets.
I didn't ask where it came from. I already knew.
They had gotten involved with the wrong people.
At first, it was small things—running errands, delivering packages. But desperation made people reckless. And my brothers… they were desperate.
They wanted to help.
They wanted to fix things.
But in this world, there's no mercy for those who take what isn't theirs.
They stole something—money, drugs, I don't know. Something big. Something they thought could save us.
Instead, it got them killed.
***
I was at the hospital when I got the call.
This time, there was no accident. No truck. No mistake.
It was deliberate.
The police said it was a message. A warning. That my brothers had gotten mixed up in things they shouldn't have. That they paid the price for it.
But I didn't need them to tell me. I already knew.
I stood in front of their graves, the same way I had stood in front of my mothers and sister's. Same earth. Same prayers.
Same emptiness inside me.
People cried around me. My grandmother collapsed again, her sobs raw, broken. The weight of losing everyone crushing her.
And I… I just stood there.
Not crying. Not speaking.
Just watching.
Until finally, I looked up at the sky and
thought—
How much more will you take from me?
Because at this point, there was nothing left.
Only me.
And my little brother, still asleep in a hospital bed.
Still waiting to wake up to a world where everyone was already gone.
***
My grandmother had been the last person holding everything together, the last bit of warmth in a house that felt emptier with every passing day. But I never noticed how much she was struggling. I didn't see it, not really. I was so caught up in trying to survive, to make sure my brother and I had enough to get by, that I didn't pay attention to the toll everything was taking on her.
She'd never complained. She never let on that it was too much.
She just kept going.
I didn't know how much she suffered.
And finally, she died peacefully in her sleep.
The next morning, I walked into her room, thinking she was just resting. I had no idea what had happened overnight.
"Grandma?" I called softly, but there was no response.
I stepped closer, thinking she was just in a deep sleep. I shook her shoulder gently.
"Grandma, wake up."
But she didn't stir.
My heart raced as I shook her again, harder this time, and that's when I felt it. The coldness of her skin. The absence of warmth.
I froze.
I didn't want to believe it. I thought maybe she was just really tired, or maybe she'd fallen into a deep sleep and needed time to wake up.
But no.
She was gone.
I didn't know how long I stood there, staring at her. It felt like the room was spinning, like the world had suddenly tilted off its axis. The silence was overwhelming.
My grandmother, the one person who had taken care of us, who had been there for me and my little brother when no one else was, was gone.
And I had missed it. I hadn't seen how weak she had become. I hadn't seen how much she had been hiding behind that quiet smile. I hadn't seen how much it had taken out of her, how the stress and worry had worn her down.
I couldn't process it.
I didn't know how to feel.
After she was gone, I had no choice but to keep moving forward.
***
My brother and I were alone now, and there was no one left to help us. No one left to take care of us.
I was fifteen, and my life had already been turned upside down. There was no way I could let my brother end up in some foster home. I wouldn't let that happen.
So, I lied.
I told the social workers that everything was fine. That we were okay, that we could manage.
I didn't have a choice.
I couldn't afford to let them take him away.
So, I started working.
I took whatever jobs I could find—cleaning, mopping floors, taking care of odd tasks here and there—but it was never enough.
I needed something more stable. Something that would allow me to pay the rent, buy food, and cover my brother's medical bills.
That's how I ended up working at a convenience store.
I worked as a cashier, barely making enough to get by. The hours were long, the pay was horrible, and the customers were rude, but I did it.
Every day, after school, I'd go straight to the store and work.
I'd scan groceries, nod politely when people complained about the prices, and mop the floors at the end of the night.
Then I'd go home to an empty house, eat whatever I could afford, and sleep just to wake up and do it all over again the next day.
And through it all, I thought about my little brother.
Even though he was still in a coma, even though I didn't know if he'd ever wake up, I couldn't give up. I had to believe he would. I had to.
Because if I stopped, if I let myself fall apart, then what would happen to him?
Who would be there when he woke up?
Who would tell him the truth?
Who would make sure he knew he wasn't alone?
No one but me.
And that was enough of a reason to keep going.