Inside was a photo of me and Mom at the fair—young, happy, holding cotton candy. In the corner, slightly blurred, stood Eli.
I pressed the photo to my chest, sobbing.
“She didn’t just feed me,” Eli said. “She saved me. And she did it so quietly you never even knew.”
He picked up the lilies, hands trembling.
“Can I come with you? Just to say goodbye to her?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
We drove to the cemetery together. The food sat warm on the passenger seat.
He placed the flowers gently on Mom’s grave and whispered something I couldn’t catch.
Then he turned to me, tears streaming.
“She asked me something else. Before she got too sick to talk much.”
“What?”
“She asked if I’d look out for you,” Eli said, his voice breaking. “Not in a creepy way. Just as someone who knows what it’s like to lose everyone you love.”
His words trembled, but they carried weight.
“She told me, ‘Be her guardian. Be the brother she never had. Be someone she can call when the world feels too heavy.’ And I promised her I would.”
I couldn’t hold it together anymore. I broke down completely, right there in the cold cemetery grass.
Eli knelt beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder.
“You’re not alone, Abby. I know what it’s like to be alone. And I won’t let that happen to you.”
