BEFORE EVERYTHING CHANGED
Mara was two years older than me.
Technically, she was my sister.
In reality, she spent most of our childhood acting like my second mother.
When she married David, I did not feel as though I had lost part of her.
I gained another home.
Every Sunday afternoon, I would walk straight through their back door without bothering to knock.
Five children usually reached me before I made it to the kitchen.
Noah was always first.
He had convinced himself that if he moved fast enough, he could steal cookies without me noticing.
Mara would point at him and say,
“That comes from your side of the family.”
David always had the same response.
“No. It comes from whoever baked the cookies.”
Their house was never quiet.
Someone was laughing.
Someone was chasing somebody else.
Someone was yelling because a toy had disappeared.
Back then, I called it chaos.
Years later, I finally understood.
It was peace.
I was twenty-five then.
Newly married.
Only two semesters away from finishing my degree.
Grant and I had ordinary plans.
Finish school.
Buy our first house.
Have children someday.
Build a normal life together.
At twenty-five, you think ordinary plans are promises.
They aren’t.
THE PHONE CALL
One rainy Monday afternoon, I was studying in the university library in Bellmere when my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
I still do not know why I answered.
A state trooper asked whether I knew Mara and David.
By the time he finished speaking, I had forgotten how to stand.
A speeding truck had crossed the center line.
Mara and David were both gone.
People say grief comes in waves.
Mine did not.
Mine felt like a building collapsing on top of me.
Before I had even begun to understand that my sister was dead, someone asked a question that mattered just as much.
“What happens to the children?”
