No forwarding address. No phone number. No explanation.
Daniel’s wife, Patricia, had been buried only eleven days earlier.
My brother had lasted less than two weeks.
At the time, I was twenty-seven years old, unmarried, and living in a small apartment above the hardware store where I swept floors and cut keys. I had exactly $312 in my checking account and a futon that didn’t even fold all the way out.
One of the babies made a soft, wet hiccup, almost as if she were trying to apologize for disturbing me.
I knelt on the porch.
Two little faces slept peacefully. The smallest one was awake, staring up at me with eyes the same gray color as my mother’s.
“Hey,” I whispered. “Hey, you.”
At that exact moment, Mrs. Hunter emerged from the neighboring unit in her bathrobe. Her slippers slapped against the concrete as she hurried over.
She had been my neighbor for six years and had never once minded her own business.
That night, it turned out to be a blessing.
Patricia had brought the triplets over twice during the summer, and Mrs. Hunter had spent hours sitting on the porch, cooing over them while Patricia proudly rattled off names and birth weights like a drill sergeant showing off new recruits.
Mrs. Hunter stopped cold when she saw the car seats.
“Noah? What in the world?!”
“It’s Daniel’s triplets.”
“Where is he?!”
“Gone.”
She looked at the note.
Then at me.
Then she pressed her hand against her chest.
“Honey, you can’t raise three babies alone!”
“I know!”
“You don’t even know how to warm a bottle.”
I sighed.
She knelt beside me.
