Three car seats, one diaper bag, and a note written on a gas receipt.
I picked up the receipt first because my brain refused to look at what was inside the car seats. My brother Daniel’s handwriting appeared slanted hard to the right, the way it always did.
I came home from a double shift.
« I’m sorry, Noah. I can’t do this. »
That was it. No forwarding address or phone number.
Daniel’s wife, Patricia, had been buried 11 days earlier. My brother had lasted less than two weeks.
I was 27, unmarried, and living above the hardware store where I swept floors and cut keys. I had exactly $312 in my checking account and a futon that didn’t fold all the way out.
One of the triplets made a sound, a soft, wet hiccup, as if she were trying to be polite.
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