I became Uncle Noah, then Dad, by accident.
“Okay, I’ve got you.”
***
Twenty-two years went by, the way a long shift does: slow in the middle, gone by the end.
I packed lunches with the wrong kind of bread. I braided their hair so badly that, before school, Mrs. Hunter would fix it on the porch.
“You’re going to give those girls complexes, Noah,” my neighbor said once, pulling a brush through Ava’s tangles.
“I’m doing my best.”
“I know you are. That’s the problem!” she teased.
“I’m doing my best.”
***
I worked double shifts at the hardware store. Then, triple shifts when one of the children needed braces, a science fair board, or new sneakers because the old ones suddenly fit nobody.
There were science fairs and fevers I sat through. Broken hearts, I didn’t know how to fix, so I just made grilled cheese and let them cry on the couch.
