After the smoke cleared from the ruins of our home, I had no time to grieve.
My siblings looked at me the way I once looked at my mother — searching for comfort, for food, for a reason to keep believing.
I was barely grown, yet life had already placed a mother's weight on my shoulders.
Every day became a lesson in strength.
We moved from place to place, borrowing space on floors, sleeping under leaking roofs, eating from the kindness of strangers.
There were nights I cried into my pillow so they wouldn't hear, praying, "God, if You gave Mama the courage to raise us, give me half of hers."
My husband stood by me through it all.
He worked two jobs, his hands blistered, his voice hoarse, but he never complained.
We learned to laugh again — softly, carefully — rebuilding our lives not from money, but from faith.
Sometimes, I still hear Mama's voice in my dreams: "Don't let go, my daughter. God is still God."
And in those moments, I wake up stronger.