There were many nights when I wondered whether I had failed those girls.
Had I worked too much?
Listened too little?
Said the wrong thing when they needed the right one?
Looking back now, I can trace our entire life to one ordinary October evening and a decision I made before I understood what it would cost.
The porch light outside my apartment was flickering when I came home from a double shift.
I smelled of sawdust, metal shavings, and machine oil from Finch & Nail Hardware, the small shop beneath the apartment where I lived in the fictional town of Bramblewick.
My keys were already in my hand.
I was thinking about cold leftovers and the futon that never opened properly.
Then I nearly tripped over three infant car seats.
Beside them sat one diaper bag.
On top of the bag was a note written on the back of a gas receipt.
For several seconds, my mind refused to understand what I was seeing.
I picked up the receipt first.
The handwriting tilted sharply to the right.
I recognized it immediately.
It belonged to my older brother, Callan.
I’m sorry, Reid. I can’t do this.
