A year after my sister died, I thought marrying Douglas would finally make the fragile family we’d built feel permanent. Then my eight-year-old nephew stopped our wedding at the altar and handed me something his mother had hidden for exactly that moment.
My sister, Judy, died in a car crash on her way to pick up her son from school.
Bruce was seven. I didn’t get to fall apart, because a little boy was sitting on my couch asking when Mom was coming to take him home.
I became his guardian that week.
My sister, Judy, died in a car crash
I loved him fiercely, and I was terrified I’d ruin him.
Douglas was the reason I didn’t.
We’d been together almost a year when Judy died, and he never left. He sat through the funeral. He slept on the floor beside Bruce’s bed during the nightmares.
