I was eighteen when I fought to keep my seven siblings together after our parents died. For three years, I thought I was barely holding us above water. Then my youngest brother found an old photo, and the truth on the back changed everything I believed about my family.
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I was eighteen when I opened the door and found two police officers on our porch.
Behind me, Lila was laughing in the kitchen because Tommy had poured cereal into a saucepan and called it “breakfast soup.” Phoebe was yelling and calling him gross. Sybil was looking for her left shoe.
Ethan and Adam were arguing over a hoodie neither of them owned, and Benji was dragging his blanket across the floor like a tiny, tired ghost.
For ten seconds, life was normal.
I was eighteen.
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Then one officer said, “Are you Rowan?”
I knew before he finished. The look on his face said it all.
My hand stayed on the doorknob. “Yes.”
His partner looked past me at my siblings like he already knew where all seven of them would fall.
“There’s been an accident,” he said. “And your parents didn’t survive it.”
I heard Lila stop laughing.
“Are you Rowan?”
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“What?” I asked, because my brain decided to become useless.
