Thirteen years.
That was how long it had been since my brother, Caleb, died.
Somehow, I had taken his two frightened little boys and carried them all the way to adulthood.
I glanced at Caleb’s framed photo in the hallway and smiled sadly.
I had no idea that by the end of that same day, I would be crying for a completely different reason.
The doorbell rang, and Aunt Marta came in with a casserole dish in her arms.
She kissed my cheek and said, “You look tired and beautiful at the same time.”
I laughed softly. “That has basically been my personality for the last thirteen years.”
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