I became the legal guardian of my five sisters at 22. Two years later, our father came back to take our house, so I let him walk straight into a trap.There were six girls in my family.Then my youngest sister turned one, and my dad announced he had “met someone.”He said it at the kitchen table.My mom looked at him and asked, “What does that mean?”didn’t even flinch. “It means I want something different.””You have six daughters,” she said.He shrugged. “I’m not saying I won’t help.”That was a lie.Within a week, he was gone.

My mom carried all of us by herself after that. She worked nonstop. I was old enough to help with the little ones, so I did. We learned fast. How to stretch meals. How to do laundry in batches. How to stop expecting him to show up.hen, when I was in college, my mom got diagnosed with cancer.I went to classes, then to work, then to hospital visits. I learned how to smile for my sisters even when I felt sick with fear.A year later, she died.I was 22. The youngest was seven.I don’t remember having time to grieve. I remember paperwork. Hearings. Social workers. Questions about income, stability, guardianship, school schedules, bedrooms, food, and transportation.I remember saying, over and over, “I’m not leaving them.”And I didn’t.I became the legal guardian of my five younger sisters before I had even finished college. I worked, studied, cooked, cleaned, paid bills, signed school forms, packed lunches, and figured things out as I went.