We built a system—a rhythm. I handle the essentials: keeping the lights on, making sure we’re fed, keeping us afloat. But everyone contributes. Everyone matters. Libby helps with the twins’ hair, stepping into a role beyond her years. My son takes care of the heavier tasks—the garbage, the lifting. The twins learn discipline, listening, structure. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours. A system of checks and balances built on trust, not fear.
When we go out, they carry themselves with pride. Not because they’re scared of consequences, but because they understand something deeper: they represent more than themselves. They represent us—our effort, our fight, our story.
It’s been three years now.
Every New Year feels like a quiet victory. Not loud or flashy—just a moment to breathe and say, we made it through another one. That’s enough to keep going.
My goal is simple, but it’s everything: get them through the next six years with as little harm as possible. Protect their dreams. Because they have big ones.
Libby wants to be an artist, just like her mother. My son lives through music—every beat, every sound is his language. One of the twins dreams of becoming a train engineer, fascinated by movement and precision. The other wants to enter the medical field, to heal, to help.
I carry all of that with me every day.
Because I never want them to look back and say: “We could have done more… but Mom left.”
No. Their story won’t be defined by what they lost—but by what we built.
That’s why I keep pushing. That’s why I go so hard.
Not just to survive—but to make sure they still have every chance to become who they’re meant to be.
