I picked up the receipt first because my mind refused to accept what was sitting inside those car seats. My brother Daniel’s handwriting leaned sharply to the right, just like it always had.
“I’m sorry, Noah. I can’t do this.”
That was all. No phone number. No address to follow.
Daniel’s wife, Patricia, had been laid to rest 11 days earlier. My brother had made it less than two weeks.
I was 27, single, and living in the apartment above the hardware store where I swept floors and made spare keys. I had exactly $312 in my checking account and a futon that never opened properly.
One of the triplets let out a tiny sound, a damp little hiccup, almost like she was trying not to bother anyone.
I crouched down on the porch. Two small faces were sleeping, but the tiniest one was awake, watching me with eyes the same gray as my mother’s.
“Hey,” I whispered. “Hey, you.”
