The air is heavy with the scent of the damp dirt as snow piles around them at random as the grave beneath her feet is too fresh, too raw to be real. She stands stiff and unmoving as her hands clench so tightly, her nails bite into her palms.

A month ago, the doctors said her mother was going to be fine. That the surgery had worked and that all the cancer had been removed. That she had more time.

But now, here she is, six feet above a lie she had wanted so desperately to believe. Told her to believe. Her father stands beside her, hollow-eyed as he clutches the smallest of her siblings in his arms.

The others huddle close, the youngest ones looking to her—to her—for something solid, something steady. While the others shut down and close off their emotions, because of the many truly beautiful and wonderful moments and times growing up, they were never taught how to express what they feel.

So she stands tall. Strong. She doesn’t cry, even though her chest aches with the weight of unshed grief. Because if she crumbles now, who will hold them together?