They even looked alike. Same dark, wavy hair. Same crooked half smile. Strangers at the grocery store asked me all the time which one was older.
I always laughed and said they weren’t brothers.
I always changed the subject quickly.
When they told me they wanted to get an apartment together after graduation, I was thrilled. Two good boys, starting out side by side. What could go wrong?
Since my husband, Graham, passed six years ago, it had been just the two of us in this house. Wyatt was twelve at the funeral. He held my hand through the whole service and didn’t cry until we got home. After that, the Coles became our second family. Dale fixed our gutters. Renata dropped off casseroles. Ezra practically lived in our basement.
On Saturday, moving day, Dale had helped the boys carry boxes up the narrow stairs to the apartment. He looked exhausted. Gray in the face, with dark circles under his eyes, stopping on every landing to catch his breath. Ezra kept telling him to sit down. Renata kept glancing at her phone.
