Our parents left when I was fifteen and my sister, Elodie, was eleven.
There was no dramatic goodbye. One day they were there, arguing about money and promising things would get better. A few days later, Aunt Lorraine was clearing space for us in her house because neither parent had come home.
That first night, Elodie climbed into the bed beside mine even though she was far too old to admit she was scared.
“Promise you won’t leave me too, Warren.”
I remember thinking it was an impossible promise for a fifteen-year-old to make, but I made it anyway.
“I won’t.”
For years, I meant it.
Aunt Lorraine gave us a roof, but Elodie still came to me when she needed someone. I helped with school forms, picked her up after terrible dates, drove across town when her first apartment flooded, and answered my phone whenever her name appeared.
So when she called me at twenty-seven and announced that she was pregnant, I was terrified for her but also strangely hopeful.
Then she laughed and told me there were three babies.
Triplets.
Her boyfriend, Curtis, seemed overwhelmed but excited. He assembled three cribs, painted the nursery twice because Elodie hated the first color, and went to nearly every appointment.
I helped whenever they asked.
