(Clary is 12 and Jonathon is 14)

Jocelyn Morgenstern, 1970 – 2009.

There it was, looming at me from the gravestone, another punch in the gut to remind me it had actually happened. I was standing in front of the stone, Jonathon silent next to me and Valentine somewhere else. None of us knew what to do; I couldn't even believe it was all real. After a long funeral day I just wanted to go home and back to normal. I was struggling to hold in all my emotions, wanting to cry and stay strong all at once.

"We should go. Where's dad?" Jonathon asked quietly.

"I don't know" I replied, and I honestly didn't. Dad came out the worst after Mum's death. He didn't speak. I hadn't heard a word since he found out the news; he had just seemed to curl in on himself. He showed no emotion, but I knew he'd cried every night since. He didn't go in their bedroom because the double bed was too much of a reminder, choosing to sleep on the sofa instead. I could hear him crying all the way from my bedroom at night. I wanted to go and comfort him, but he just seemed so desolate and I didn't know what to say. He wasn't the strong independent father that I had always known anymore. Now he just seemed to crumble.

We began searching for him and after finding him talking to a few relatives, we quickly left for home. It was eerily quiet, like no one lived there at all.

The few days that followed after the funeral were quiet and uneventful. I wanted to go back to school, back to normal, but instead I stayed at home, trying to distract myself, finding consolation in drawing. I'd draw my emotions, letting them pour out onto the paper.

Dad wasn't coping well at all: he sat and stared into space all day and Jonathon was never around. I didn't know where he was, just that he wasn't around. No one made food; sometimes I went the whole day without eating. My stomach felt hollow and one day I decided that I'd had enough. It was time to take charge. If Jonathon was going to disappear and Dad was going to mope around all day, I would do my very best to make mum proud and actually get on with life.

"Dad, we need to eat. Is there any food?" I tentatively asked him as he sat unmoving from the couch.

"I don't know," he said. I was taken aback; he had said something! At least that was a start. I checked the fridge and the cupboards. The cupboards were full of tins of soup and sugar, but the fridge was full of mouldy vegetables and other unrecognisable bits of food. Eurgh! I binned everything and grabbed some money from Dad's wallet on the table.

"I'm going to get some food," I called, shutting the door carefully behind me. When I reached the store and stood outside, I felt apprehensive. I hadn't been out in public since the funeral. However I had a small amount of fun picking out all the food. I had no idea how to shop, what to get or how much to get but I figured that had done pretty well. I paid the woman at the till and dragged all the shopping bags home, frustrated and tired by the time I got there.

I was pretty pleased with the spaghetti I made. I'm not gonna lie, I had some talent at cooking. It looked really tasty, especially after no proper food for what seemed like years. I made three plates but only two got eaten. I put Jonathon's and the leftovers in the fridge. He'd eat it later.

"Thanks Clary."

I turned around, startled. Dad was on his feet and smiling. It was a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless, so I smiled back before heading upstairs and into my room. There I wrote my third letter to mum. I'd started writing them because it was a good way to deal with the pain. I'd tell her about my day and then after I was done I would go to the living room to watch TV. Our apartment had a kitchen, one bathroom, my room, Jonathon's room and my pare- no, Dad's room. I bit back the tears as I plonked down onto the sofa, settling in to watch something.

Dad emerged from the bathroom, looking exhausted.

"You should get some sleep," I advised, seeing that he wasn't looking after himself. He seemed to agree, getting up and heading towards his bedroom. I held my breath as he opened the door - and immediately stumbled back. He seemed to shatter into a million pieces as he tore away and into my bedroom. I sighed but I let him stay there. It was my turn to sleep on the sofa. I went to the cabinet and pulled out a blanket, settled down on the sofa and tried and tried to sleep, but I couldn't. Jonathon was still out there and it must have been past one in the morning. He was only 14 for goodness sake. Anything could happen! I got more and more worried until I heard a lazy thump at the door. I shot up and opened it.

Jonathon immediately fell onto me. I stumbled back, trying to push him away, and eventually managed to shut the front door.

"Clary…" He slurred, smelling (and looking) disgusting. He was obviously drunk out of his mind, and that scared me. I'd never seen anyone drunk before.

"Bathroom…" He managed again and hurriedly I dragged him to it. He threw up all he had into the toilet. Finally he groaned, slumping unconscious.

"Jonathon," I said, shaking him. He didn't wake up and I stifled a cry. I couldn't just leave my brother on the bathroom floor. Hesitantly I stood and tried lifting him. He was two years older than me and a boy, so what chance did I have? After trying for ages, I settled for dragging him out into the hall and eventually got him to his bedroom.

This was it. I heaved with all I had and managed to lift him off the floor, but I couldn't hold him for long and I dumped him down quite quickly. I took his shoes off and tucked him in. I couldn't help but kiss his forehead. He looked so innocent as he slept.

I left the room, tears streaking down my face. So this was it. This was my family now. A broken, widowed man, an underage drunk son and a daughter struggling to keep everything together. What ever had happened to the glorious Morgensterns? We were always happy, with loving parents and obedient children. Dad had made sure that we were the best we could be: always independent and well prepared. He had even taught us self defence to keep us safe. It was hard to see it now, but I knew he still loved us, and whatever he did, I knew I would always love him for those 12 years. I finally slept with the images of ice cream and sunny holidays.