I raised my 7 grandchildren alone after their parents’ funeral — 10 years later, my youngest granddaughter handed me a box and whispered, “Grandma, Mom and Dad didn’t die that night.”

There was a mortgage, seven growing children, groceries, school clothes, medical appointments, and a never-ending pile of household bills.

I worked mornings at a grocery store and cleaned offices three evenings a week.

Sometimes I came home so tired that I fell asleep at the kitchen table while helping someone with homework.

But the exhaustion was nothing compared to watching the children grieve.

The youngest ones woke up crying for their mother.

The older ones tried to act brave, although I’d sometimes find them sitting alone with their parents’ photographs.

Miles, the oldest, had been fifteen when the accident happened.

He suddenly became very responsible, helping with dinner and keeping the younger children occupied whenever I had to work.

I worried about him because he almost never talked about his parents.

Whenever I asked how he was feeling, he gave me the same answer.

“I’m okay, Grandma. Don’t worry about me.”