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We were still young when it happened. We knew it was coming but that day in June 1999, the rug was pulled out from under us. Our mother, the only person who had shown us what real love felt like, died. That's right. Died. Dead. Passed on. Extinguished. So my sister and I, aged sixteen and twenty, found our own place and figured out how to live day to day going forward. We learned how to separate our laundry. We learned how to clean the bathroom. We learned how to grocery shop and cook. We learned how to survive alone, together. We dealt with our grief in different ways. I felt it all, hard, immediately. She was calm, logical, strong. She comforted me when I cried in the middle of the night, for nights straight, in our tiny condo. We'd wake up, go to school, come home, get up, do it again. We found jobs. We created a family of friends. Some days were hard, others were numb. We kept waking up and showing up. And then one day, we started living again. We remembered how to laugh. We didn't break down when talking about her. We let others help us. And every day didn't seem like it took effort. We came out the other side, stronger, wiser, and with a secret to life.
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