She hung up before I could ask another question, which was, in hindsight, the first thing that should have warned me.
I tidied the couch and put the kettle on. Being the reliable one was a role I had worn since I was nine years old, when I first started sneaking Ruth’s forgotten homework into her backpack.
Twenty minutes later, Ruth was at my door with the kids, but she did not step inside.
« Hi, Aunt Alice, » Aby said quietly. My seven-year-old niece clutched a purple backpack against her chest like a shield.
Arthur, four years old and oblivious, wrapped himself around my leg. « Aunt Alice, do you have juice? »
« I have juice, buddy. Go find the couch. »
He barreled inside. Aby stayed on the porch, watching her mother.
I looked at Ruth properly. She was wearing more makeup than usual, and her eyes were rimmed pink beneath it. She had one backpack for both children. One.
« Just an hour? » I asked.
« Maybe a little more. I’ll text you. »
