My eyes find Mom across the room, drawn to her like a compass finding north. Despite her puffy eyes and the exhaustion etched in the lines around her mouth, she's poised – a picture of quiet strength. Her black dress wraps around her like armor, elegant yet protective. She's beautiful, even in grief. Her dark hair is pinned back, soft curls falling loose in a way that looks effortless, but I know it took her three tries to get right this morning. I watched her hands shake as she fixed it, over and over, like getting her hair perfect could somehow make this day bearable.

I wish I could be like that.

Instead, I cling to the edges of the room, pressing my back against the cool wall, hoping no one sees me, talks to me, or—God forbid—tries to hug me again. Each embrace feels like sandpaper against my raw nerves.

By Mom's side is Lydia Sullivan, Dad's "other wife" as he used to joke. His voice echoes in my memory: "Some men fear their wives having best friends. Me? I got a two-for-one deal with my family." She's been a permanent fixture in our lives since Mom and Dad met.

Katherine Holt and Lydia Murphy were a packaged deal, inseparable from the start. Dad had known what he was signing up for when he proposed.

Since Dad's passing, Lydia has been an anchor. She's handled everything—the endless phone calls, funeral arrangements, even making sure we eat. It drives Mom crazy, this fierce efficiency born of love, but Lydia doesn't expect gratitude. She loved Dad like a brother, their bond forged through years of shared holidays and inside jokes.

When Mom called to tell her the news, Lydia was on the first flight from New York. She hasn't left Mom's side since, just like when they were teenagers.

For that, I'm grateful.

My gaze shifts to Ollie, my brother, hovering near the kitchen island. Ollie turns eighteen at the end of this year but somehow today he looks like an old soul and a kid at the same time. Most days, I'm the responsible one, while Ollie plays the part of a kid trapped in a growing athlete's body.

But now? Now he wields charm and humor like armor, each joke a shield against the pain I see flickering behind his eyes. He's been like that for as long as I can remember—quick with a laugh, never filtering his thoughts. The words tumble out of him like they can't wait to be heard, but never with cruelty. His humor brings light, even when it's self-deprecating.

It's his way of making everything seem okay, of holding our world together with duct tape and punchlines. But behind that easy smile, he feels everything with an intensity that scares me. He feels it all at once, and even now, on this impossible day, he's trying to make others laugh. I worry about him as much as he worries about me.