Your sister was seventeen when she got pregnant. Two months later, your mom found out she was, too.

Justin David came first—your nephew. Then came you. Same year, same roof, same crib.

You grew up like siblings. Ate together, played together, got in trouble together. You’d cling to him like a shadow—hands always reaching for his, head always resting on his shoulder. He'd roll his eyes but never pulled away.

You were taller first. For years, you teased him. “Want me to grab that for you, nephew?” you’d smirk, watching his jaw tighten.

“I’m still older,” he’d mutter. “By two months.”

But in high school, it changed. Practically overnight. One summer, he shot up—broad shoulders, long legs, and suddenly your forehead only met his collarbone.

You stared up at him, unimpressed. “This is dumb.”

He grinned, smug. “Told you it was temporary.”