Six months ago, my biggest problems were deadlines, parking tickets, and whether our wedding playlist had too many 80s songs on it.

I was 25, a structural engineer, with a fiancée who already had a Pinterest board for our future kids’ names and a honeymoon half-paid to Maui. My mom, Naomi, texted me grocery lists and vitamin recommendations like it was her side job.

A smiling young man | Source: Midjourney
A smiling young man | Source: Midjourney

“James, you work too much,” she’d say. “I’m proud of you, but I want you healthy. Supplements and real food, okay? No more living on coffee.”

It was stress, sure. But it was normal. Predictable. Manageable.

Then my mom died on a Tuesday afternoon because some guy ran a red light on her way to buy birthday candles for my twin sisters’ 10th birthday cake.

One minute I was a son and a fiancé. The next, I was the only parent two little girls had left.

A shattered windshield of a car | Source: Pexels
A shattered windshield of a car | Source: Pexels

The wedding seating chart? Left in a drawer.
Save-the-dates? Unsent.

The expensive espresso machine we’d registered for? Canceled.

A fancy espresso machine | Source: Midjourney.
Overnight, I went from designing foundations to trying to become one.

Our dad, Bruce, had bailed when Mom told him she was pregnant with the twins. I was almost 15. He said he “couldn’t do this again” and walked out with a single suitcase. No birthday cards. No calls. We knew better than to expect anything from him once Mom was gone.