My name is Sara Green, and on December 31, 2025, my little brother, John Michael Pinter, passed away. John was my first friend in this world. He was, and always will be, a piece of my soul.

John was the second of five children born to our parents, Tom and Abby. Before Maggie, Stephen, and Henry joined the family, it was just the two of us. I still carry the golden memories of those early years: catching lightning bugs in the yard, riding our bikes for hours, and watching for the glow of the streetlamps—our signal to head home. Whether we were huddled over our toys, Care Bears and Teddy Ruxpin or cheering as we finally saved Princess Peach on the original Nintendo, we were a team from the very start.

As our family grew to five siblings, that bond only deepened. Despite the thirteen years between myself and our youngest brother, Henry, we were incredibly, uniquely close. We didn’t just grow up in the same house; we truly loved each other. When we moved from New Jersey to North Carolina, we did it as a unit. Our parents led us with a "million percent" love, working tirelessly to provide for us. We saw their sacrifice every day, and that shared resilience became the thread that tied all five of us together.

It is important to me that you know John was not always an addict. For a long time, he was just a happy, vibrant boy who loved life. But John had a personality that lived in the extremes; whatever he did, he did with his whole heart and I think he met a sickness that was bigger than he was.

For almost half of his life, my sweet brother battled that addiction. When people hear that, they often look for a trauma to blame—they ask what went wrong. But the truth is, we had an amazing, happy childhood. I believe John’s struggle was born from a quieter place: undiagnosed learning disabilities that created a deep insecurity about his worth. It led him to a heartbreaking, false belief that he was "a piece of crap" and undeserving of good things. He made mistakes, but John was a kind soul; his sickness made him do things that were simply not in his nature.

Even through his darkest battles, John was capable of building something beautiful. He met his wife, Chelsea, who was his absolute best friend and the anchor of his life. Together, they built a home filled with love and the chaotic, wonderful energy of three young boys: Luca, Logan, and Jonathan. When he was with them, you could see the man he truly was—the man who loved with every single fiber of his being.

As we grew up, married, and moved away, life naturally shifted. Our bond never weakened, but our own families became the priority. Hindsight is heavy, and I wish I had checked in more. Today, I want to remember the boy under the streetlamps and the man who was a vital part of our "five."

Because we loved him so much, we want to ensure that the family he built is cared for. We are raising these funds for Chelsea. We know that no amount of money can replace my brother or even come close to fixing this loss, but our hope is that it gives her the support she needs to stand on her own and continue building the life they started together. While money cannot heal our hearts, it can certainly make the burdens of everyday life a little easier for her and the boys during this impossible time.

John, you were never worthless. You were, and are, a piece of us that we will carry forever.

We will always love you.