Denise turned to me with a tight smile. “Don’t be selfish, sweetheart. You can’t save everyone.”
“I’m not trying to save everyone,” I said, facing the judge. “I’m trying to keep my family together.”
The judge leaned forward. “Do you understand what you’re asking?”
“Not completely,” I admitted. “But I know them. I know Tommy needs his inhaler at night. I know Benji hides food when he’s scared. I know Sybil gets mean when she’s hungry. I know how they sleep, what they fear… I know them.”
Behind me, Lila broke down first.
“I don’t want Aunt Denise,” she cried. “I want Rowan.”
Then Phoebe nodded, then Tommy started sobbing, then Benji… even Adam covered his face.
Two weeks later, temporary guardianship was mine.
I celebrated by throwing up in the courthouse bathroom.
The next three years were survival.
I dropped out of college. I worked every job I could find—warehouse shifts, grocery stores, deliveries. I learned how to function on almost no sleep.
Our neighbor, Mrs. Dalrymple, became our lifeline. She watched the kids, brought food, and refused every dollar I offered.
“Pay me back by not burning your kitchen down,” she said once, setting a casserole on the counter.
“I only burned rice,” I muttered.
“Rice isn’t supposed to smoke,” she replied.
Lila laughed for the first time in days.
We weren’t thriving—but we were still together.
And that mattered.
One night, Sybil found me staring at the electric bill.
“You’re doing that face again,” she said.
“What face?”
“The ‘I might sell a kidney’ face.”
I laughed weakly. “Go to bed.”
She sat across from me instead. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”
That hurt more than anything.
Because I wanted them to be kids—not people worrying about me.
Aunt Denise kept showing up, offering criticism but never help.
“This house is falling apart,” she said one afternoon. “Don’t you have access to the funds yet?”
“Not yet.”
“What’s taking so long?”
“I don’t know.”
She lowered her voice. “You know, asking for help isn’t failure.”
“Great,” I said. “Help.”
She blinked.
“Tommy needs shoes. Benji needs glasses. Sybil needs money for a field trip. Pick one.”
Her smile froze.
“I meant adult help,” she said.
“You mean taking them,” I replied.
She didn’t deny it.
I thought that was the worst of it.
I was wrong.
One night, little Benji walked into my room, holding an old photo.
“I was looking for the Christmas lights,” he said softly. “I missed Mom.”
The photo showed our parents standing outside a courthouse.
Behind them stood Aunt Denise and Uncle Warren.
Denise was smiling.
Something about that smile felt wrong.
I turned the photo over.
CONTINUE READING…>>
