My name is Natalie Mercer. I was thirty-six, a single mother living outside Columbus, Ohio, and working full-time at a grocery store. My son, Evan, was nine years old. He was the kind of kid who apologized when someone bumped into him, saved the biggest cookie for me, and still believed adults usually meant what they promised.
I loved that innocence about him, but it also frightened me because I knew how easily kind people could be taken advantage of—especially by family.
My older sister, Lauren, had three children: Chloe, fifteen; Ben, twelve; and Noah, seven. Lauren had always been the louder sister, the more charming sister, and the one who somehow managed to cry before anyone could hold her responsible for whatever had happened. I was the reliable one. If Lauren needed a babysitter, Mom called me. If she couldn’t afford a bill, Mom called me. If her kids needed school supplies, birthday presents, or transportation, there was always some explanation for why I should step in.
Because I loved my nieces and nephews, I usually did.
Our family loved saying, “We have to take care of each other.”
What that usually meant was that I had to take care of Lauren.
My father, Robert, had been different. He worked as a mechanic for thirty-eight years, wore the same old baseball cap until it practically fell apart, and believed that when you gave someone your word, you kept it. He died three years before all of this happened. After his funeral, Mom told Lauren and me that Dad had left her the house and that most of his remaining savings had disappeared into medical expenses.
