Then Aunt Denise and her husband, Howard, appeared.
They hadn’t visited us in years.
Before our parents died, I could go months without hearing from Denise.
But suddenly, after the funeral, they were everywhere.
They wanted guardianship of Vicky.
Then they started talking about adoption.
Denise sat across from me one afternoon, wearing an expensive coat and speaking in the soft, reassuring voice she seemed to reserve for other people’s children.
“You’re nineteen,” she told me.
“Go enjoy your life. Let the grown-ups raise her.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
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