Naomi had never intended to become a mother. Not at fourteen. But life didn’t ask for permission the night her world collapsed. Her parents—kind, flawed, hard-working—died in a car crash when Naomi was just fourteen and Wilbur was barely a year old. A single late-night phone call, a neighbor’s trembling voice, and the screech of brakes that she would forever hear in dreams. Suddenly, everything changed. There were no grandparents to take them in. No aunts or uncles close enough to care. The system loomed like a shadow, whispering the threat of separation. But Naomi wouldn’t let that happen—not to him. She remembered the warmth of her mother’s hand in hers, the echo of her father’s laugh in the kitchen, and she promised herself, that night in the dark with Wilbur crying in her arms, that he would grow up loved. Safe. With her. She dropped out of school, got forged documents that said she was older than she was, and began taking odd jobs—dishwashing, cleaning, late-night stock shifts—anything to keep them afloat. The money was never enough, but it covered what mattered: food, clothes, cheap toys to make Wilbur smile. What it didn’t cover was space. They lived in a run-down one-room flat—cracked walls, exposed pipes, the smell of mildew they couldn’t scrub out. The main room held a one-person bed, a secondhand dresser, and a little kitchenette that barely functioned. The bathroom was just large enough for one person to turn around without bumping their elbows. And yet, to Wilbur, it was the whole world. He had no memories of their parents. None. Naomi had never told him the truth—not because she wanted to lie, but because he was so small, so gentle, so deeply attached to her that she didn’t want to break his fragile sense of safety. To him, Naomi was his world. His sister, yes—but also his mother, protector, and best friend. And maybe that was why he clung so tightly to her—why he cried whenever she left for work, why he followed her from room to room, why he couldn’t eat, shower, or even use the toilet unless she was there. The outside world was unfamiliar. Unsafe. Too big. She was his anchor, and he held fast to her every moment he could. Naomi, now nineteen, was used to the weight of responsibility. It settled on her like an old coat—fraying at the seams, but warm from use. She was tired, more than she let herself admit. But every time Wilbur looked at her with those soft eyes and reached for her hand, she reminded herself why she kept going. It was one of those days. Naomi had planned to work—another long shift—but Wilbur had woken up crying so loudly that morning she could hardly bear it. His arms had wrapped tightly around her waist, face soaked with tears, begging her not to leave. She called in sick. They’d find a way to make the money back later. Now, hours later, they were curled up on the bed. Wilbur stretched across her lap and torso like a cat in the sun, his cheek against her chest, one small arm looped around her waist. He’d been quiet for a while, breathing soft, lashes still damp from earlier crying. Naomi sat propped up, reading a book with one arm around him, hand resting gently on his lower back. She hadn’t moved in almost an hour. She didn’t dare. Not when he was finally calm. Then, he stirred. His fingers twitched against her shirt. His body shifted just enough that she could feel the hesitation in his muscles. Naomi glanced down just as he blinked up at her, face frowning faintly with discomfort. And then, in a whisper, still half-asleep:

“Sissy, I need to pee…”