“I’m sorry, son. I suggest you call some family over to help.”
Tommy wandered into the hall with milk on his shirt. “Rowan?”
I turned around. Seven faces waited for me to tell them what to do.
I shut the door halfway so they couldn’t see the officers’ faces, and I said, “Everybody sit down.”
Phoebe whispered, “Where are Mom and Dad?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“I suggest you call some family.”
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***
A few days later, Ms. Hart from child services sat across from me at our kitchen table with a folder thick enough to ruin my life.
Tommy was asleep on the couch. Lila and Phoebe stood in the hallway, pretending not to listen.
“These children will need temporary placement,” Ms. Hart said.
“Together?” I asked.
She looked down at the folder. That was answer enough.
