“Raising Myself While Raising My Siblings”

Raising Myself While Raising My Siblings

I was thirteen when I became someone’s mother.

Not by biology, but by circumstance.

Our mom didn’t leave all at once—it was more like a slow fade. First, she started coming home late. Then she stopped coming home at all. Some nights, she was gone. Others, she came back hollow, quiet, and smelled like smoke and strangers.

Dad had left long before that. I barely remembered his voice.

So, it was just me. And the two faces that looked up at me every morning like I had answers: Ava, 8, full of questions, and Liam, barely 3, with peanut butter cheeks and sticky fingers.

I wasn’t ready. I was still a kid. But no one asked if I was.


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I remember the first morning I made breakfast for them. Cereal and toast. Liam cried because we didn’t have the kind of cereal he liked, and Ava said I burned the toast.

I wanted to scream. Instead, I said sorry and smiled, pretending like I had it all under control.

I learned fast. How to braid Ava’s hair. How to potty-train Liam. How to stretch one pack of noodles into dinner for three. I packed their lunches, walked them to school, checked their homework—even if I hadn’t finished mine.

I stopped being invited to sleepovers. I didn’t go to school dances. I gave up the idea of being a “normal teenager” because normal wasn’t an option.


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Every night, I waited for Mom to walk through the door. Some nights she did. Most nights, she didn’t. And when she did, she’d mumble something about being tired and disappear into her room like a ghost.

We stopped asking where she’d been. That’s how it is when you’re used to disappointment—it no longer surprises you.

But I kept going.

I didn’t raise them because I had to.

I raised them because I loved them.


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When I was sixteen, Ava got sick. Nothing serious, just the flu. But she was burning up, and I didn’t know what to do. Mom was gone for two days straight. I called every number I had, but no one answered.

So I took her to the ER myself. Carried Liam on one hip and held Ava’s hand with the other. The nurse asked where our parent was.

“I’m her sister,” I said, “but I’m the only one here.”

They let us in. I stayed up all night in that cold hospital chair, watching Ava breathe while Liam slept curled up next to me.

That was the night I realized I wasn’t just their sister anymore.


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We had birthdays with dollar-store candles, movie nights with scratched DVDs, and pancake Saturdays made from mix and hope. We laughed, we cried, we survived.

I watched Ava win her first spelling bee. I cheered when Liam finally stopped wetting the bed. I helped them build science projects and wiped their tears when they missed Mom on holidays.

But I missed things too.

I missed applying to college because I didn’t know how. I missed having someone ask me how I was doing. I missed being held, comforted, reassured.

There were days I broke down in the bathroom, tears streaming down silently so they wouldn’t hear. But even then, I got up. Because someone had to.


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Mom eventually came back—but only as a visitor. She apologized in fragments, promised things she couldn’t deliver, and offered help I didn’t need anymore. By then, I was eighteen, working part-time, and already planning how to keep a roof over our heads without her.

I didn’t hate her. But I couldn’t trust her either.

My siblings, though? They trusted me. And that meant everything.


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Now I’m twenty-three. Ava just got accepted into college. She wants to study education and help kids who grow up like we did.

Liam is in high