It’s 9 PM on February 27, 2020. My extremely drunk stepdad tells me to go to bed. I try to explain to him it isn’t my bedtime, and my mom stands up for me. Then, he yells, telling me to go upstairs. After kissing my mom on the forehead, telling her I love her while staring at my stepdad with a disgusted look on my face, I head upstairs and sit at the top. I sit here to ensure my mom doesn’t get beaten tonight, where I’ve sat many times before. After five minutes, I heard my mom shout for my older sister to call the cops. My stepdad put a gun in her face and said, “I am going to kill you.” Not this again. I ran downstairs to see my sister confused and walking over to my parents. Mom is sitting on the couch with “Dad” standing over her. My sister reaches for the gun, and he pushes her away. His arm swings out, gripping that black handgun, and then four shots land in my mom's body. She frantically tried to escape her chair, but no one can outrun a bullet. My mind focused on the casings popping off my mom’s body while watching her turn away from the gun. I screamed and pleaded for my stepdad to stop. The right side of her chest, arm, and back were shot. The gun turns toward my stepdad's head, but there is a slight hesitation. Another shot goes off, and he falls face-first onto the ground. Blood instantly soaks the carpet underneath him. A few feet away is another growing blood stain as my mom lies on the ground, fighting to live. All in our living room. My alcoholic and abusive stepdad is something my mom, six siblings, and I have always dealt with. On the night of the shooting, my older sister, two younger sisters, and I were all in the house to witness the tragedy. After staying a few hours with a friend, we met our older siblings at the hospital. “Mommy didn’t make it.” It took me a minute to fully understand those words. I watched my little sisters bawling and dry heaving on the hospital floor. When my mind caught up with reality, I joined them. My stepdad died a month later, but that didn’t matter to me. The first two years of high school were rough. I didn’t go to school. I was going to sleep super early, waking up super late, attempting to sleep everything away. I was the most depressed I had ever been. My sisters, family, and friends kept me going, but I still felt alone. I lost my best friend, the person I wanted to walk me down the aisle when I got married. My grades were declining. I felt like nothing I did mattered because my mom wasn’t there to see it. With therapy and a lot of emotional trial and error, I started feeling more like a person. I was determined to fight and not let this horrid event define my life. Junior year, I wanted to be more academically serious. I held myself accountable for my actions while also being fair to myself when it came to my grief. I began to learn to deal with anxiety, sadness, and post-traumatic stress. Now, in my senior year, I am still growing and learning how to keep improving my mental health. If I could get through those first two years after my mom’s passing, I could do anything. I keep up with my classes, have a more active social life, and maintain my grades with a part-time job. Two years ago, I didn’t care if I made it to senior year or the next day. Today, I am passionate about my future and excited to start a new chapter out of high school, taking life into my own hands.