During Mother’s Day dinner, my sister proudly announced that her third baby was on the way. My mother clapped her hands and said, “This is everything I ever wanted.” Then my father looked straight at me and said, “You’ll be helping with the kids.” I froze. “Excuse me?” My sister rolled her eyes. “You’re not doing anything with your life anyway. This will give you purpose.”

The last pieces of sleep left me at once.

Colette.

My younger sister.

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The golden one. The fragile one. The one who, less than fourteen hours earlier, had sat across my parents’ dining table with one hand over her stomach and told us she was pregnant with her third baby while everyone looked at her like she had personally handed the family a miracle.

“Yes,” I said carefully. “She’s my sister. What happened?”

There was a pause, and in that pause my heart began doing something hard and uneven.

“Ma’am, we’re at your parents’ residence on Hanover Lane. Your nephew was found walking alone near Ashbury and Third this morning. He gave us your name and phone number.”

For a second, I could not understand the words.

“My nephew?” I whispered. “Malik?”

“Yes, ma’am. Six years old. He’s safe. Cold and frightened, but safe. He said he was trying to find Aunt Martha because his little sister was crying and nobody would wake up.”