“I know, Rowan,” she said gently.
“No. If you did, you wouldn’t be telling me to split them up like mismatched socks.”
Her face softened. “Rowan, you’re eighteen.”
“I know how old I am.”
“You have no degree and no steady income. According to the paperwork, the mortgage is behind.”
“I can work. I can learn. Just don’t split them up.”
“They just lost Mom and Dad.”
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“It isn’t that simple.”
I looked at Tommy, curled under his blanket, with one hand still holding Mom’s old keychain. “Neither is telling a six-year-old he lost his parents and his family in the same week.”
Ms. Hart closed the folder halfway. “I hear you. Don’t get me wrong. But love isn’t always enough.”
“Then teach me what else I need. Help me.”
“I can only do so much, Rowan. But remember, a court date will be set, whether we like it or not.”
“It isn’t that simple.”
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***
Court was worse.
Aunt Denise arrived in pearls and a cream coat, with Uncle Warren carrying a folder like they had already won.
“I love those children,” Aunt Denise told the judge, dabbing under one dry eye. “But Rowan is a child himself. I can take the youngest two until things settle. I’m willing and able.”
