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I was born the year my brother, Taylor Summers, took his own life. I dropped dead just ten minutes before I was supposed to step onto the stage and make his dream come true. On my phone, a string of sixty-second voice messages from my mother, Helen Lewis, kept playing. In the living room, relatives had gathered around the TV, waiting eagerly to watch my performance. Several relatives who couldn't attend sent messages in the family group chat, all praising Helen for raising such a remarkable child. Helen's face lit up with a proud, wrinkled smile. "My Taylor was always the sweetest, the most obedient. Making it to World of Dance? That is our shared dream." I hovered above, watching paramedics work on my body below. All I could whisper into the silent air was, "I'm sorry, Mom. In the end, I still let you down."