I never got married.

Not because I didn’t believe in love.

Not because nobody asked.

And not because I didn’t have dreams.

I simply spent my life raising someone else’s children.

When I was twenty-six, my older brother, David, and his wife, Emily, died in a car accident.

Just like that.

One rainy night.

One phone call.

And two little boys lost everything.

Mason and Noah were only five.

Twins.

Terrified.

Too young to understand death.

Too old not to feel it.

At the funeral, people hugged me and promised they would help.

“We’re family.”

“We’ll be there.”

“You won’t do this alone.”

But grief is strange.

And promises are easy when casseroles are still arriving.

The first month, everyone checked in.

By six months, fewer calls came.

After a year…

Almost everyone disappeared.

Life moved on for them.

But for the three of us?

It had only just begun.

So what was supposed to be temporary became permanent.

I became their guardian.

And eventually…

Their mother in everything but name.

The first few years were chaos.

Nightmares.

School conferences.

Chicken pox.

Tears.

Homework.

Soccer practice.

Broken bicycles.

Lost teeth.

And two little boys who still cried themselves to sleep asking for Mom and Dad.

I cried too.

Just never where they could see me.

I learned to braid friendship bracelets because Noah liked making them.

I learned baseball statistics because Mason loved them.

I attended every Christmas concert.

Every science fair.

Every terrible recorder recital.

Every scraped knee.

Every fever.

Every heartbreak.

And somewhere along the way…

“Aunt Claire” quietly became “home.”

Dating?

That mostly disappeared.

Not intentionally.

Life just got busy.

I canceled dinners because one boy had the flu.

Skipped vacations because school clothes came first.

Turned down promotions because they required travel.

Friends got married.

Started families.

Divorced.

Remarried.

Their kids grew up.

And I barely noticed.

Because I was too busy making lunches and paying bills.

People would sometimes say:

“You sacrificed so much.”

I never liked that word.

Sacrifice implies regret.

And I never regretted those boys.

Not once.

Still…

There were lonely nights.

Times I’d wonder what my life might’ve looked like.

Would I have had children?

Would I have traveled?

Would somebody have loved me enough to stay?

Then I’d hear Noah snoring through the wall.

Or Mason laughing at a video game.

And somehow, the questions would quiet down.

Because I had them.

And they had me.

And that was enough.

Or so I thought.

Then came their eighteenth birthday.

I went all out.

Barbecue.

Cake.