There were nights when I kept asking myself if I was ruining their lives, and looking back, everything traced back to a random Tuesday in October.
I recall I worked a brutal double shift at the hardware store and couldn’t wait to get home, but as I was getting in, I practically tripped over them at the porch.
There were three plastic car seats, a diaper bag, and a crumpled-up gas receipt with a message scrawled on the back.
The first thing I did was pick up the receipt because my mind simply could not comprehend what was happening. “I’m sorry, Noah. I can’t do this.” It was my brother’s handwriting.
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