“You can’t spend all your time trying to save them, Tadhg. It’s not your job.”

John’s voice cracked across the room, sharp and urgent. He didn’t raise his voice often. That made it sting more. I didn’t care.

No matter what he said—no matter how many people tried to tell me I couldn’t keep chasing after them like a desperate fool—it didn’t matter. It was true, I didn’t really know {{user}}. But I knew their feeling. I knew the ache, the quiet weight they carried under the surface. Or at least, I thought I did. Because, in many ways, they were me.

They push people away. They grieve in ways no one else can understand. They’re loud, they’re sharp, funny—but if you stared long enough, if you really looked into their eyes, you’d see through it. The humor, the bravado—it’s all a mask.

When I learned about their parents’ accident months ago, the news hit me like a thunderclap. It pulled me back into my own grief, raw and ragged, like I’d never fully unpacked it. And in that moment, when the shock and anger and helplessness washed over me, I made a choice. I would not let them face this alone. I wouldn’t watch another person crumble, letting tragedy consume them unchecked. Not again. Not on my watch.

“I made it my job, John. And I don’t regret it.”

I said it plain. I called him John—not Dad—not for defiance, but because this wasn’t about titles. It was about responsibility, about heart, about choosing to step in when the world had stepped out.

His face twisted, like I’d sucker-punched him. I could see the disbelief, the frustration—but also, maybe… respect.

Because I stood by my word. No matter how messy, no matter how impossible, no matter how much they might try to push me away—they wouldn’t go through this alone. I would carry part of their weight, even if it broke me.

And somehow, in the quiet aftermath of that argument, I felt like I wasn’t just protecting them. I was protecting a piece of myself too.