I became Uncle Noah, then Dad, by accident.
—
Twenty-two years passed, the way a long workday does: slow while you’re inside it, gone when you look back.
I packed lunches with the wrong bread. I braided their hair so badly that Mrs. Hunter had to fix it on the porch before school.
“You’re going to give those girls complexes, Noah,” my neighbor said once, pulling a brush through Ava’s tangles.
“I’m doing my best.”
“I know you are. That’s the problem!” she teased.
—
I worked double shifts at the hardware store. Then triple shifts whenever one of the kids needed braces, a science fair board, or new shoes because somehow the old pairs fit no one anymore.
There were science fairs and fevers I sat through. There were broken hearts I had no idea how to mend, so I made grilled cheese and let them cry on the couch.
