3

He made Reagan cry the other day because her scrunchie snapped while he was trying to do a ponytail for her. As if that was her fault.

I keep telling myself to have grace. He’s going through a dark time. He’ll come out of it.

At least, I hope he will. Truth is, I was never a huge fan of his in the first place. I found ways to tolerate him for Sienna’s sake, because there’s nothing I wouldn’t have done for my sister.

Without her, though… it’s harder.

I shake my head. It’s not good to let myself dwell on these ruts. Nothing good will come of wondering why this is the hand I’ve been dealt. I just have to do the work. Silently and unthanked, sure. But the world isn’t built to be kind to people like me.

So I drop my purse, roll up my sleeves, and do what I can to make it kind to people like Josh, Caroline, and Reagan.

Beer bottles go in the trash. Clothes go in the dryer. Dishes get scrubbed and toweled and put back in the cabinets, and little by little, the mess dwindles. In the corner, the clock hand ticks past 1:00 AM. I need to be back at Bane by quarter to six. With crosstown traffic, that means I’m looking at three hours of sleep max before I have to be up and running again.

By the time I finish, 1:00 AM has become 2:30. I zombie-walk my way down the hall. My room beckons, but before I can succumb to sleep, I have to check on the littles.

The girls’ room is the first one on the right. I open the door and peek in.

Caroline is asleep on the top bunk. Her hand is dangling down, so I tiptoe across the thrifted pink shag rug and tuck it back up on the mattress so the monsters won’t get it. I pause and listen, but her breathing is practically imperceptible when she’s K.O.’d. The first night I had her under my roof, I was terrified that she’d died in my care.

When I’m satisfied she’s comfortable, I crouch down to peer at Reagan. Her hair has fallen over her eyes. I smooth it away. Unlike Caroline, she’s a snorer. She’s got a real honk-shoo-honk-shoomimimi pattern to her sleep breathing, like one of Snow White’s dwarves. My little angel. Those cherry apple cheeks are so pinchable. Just like Sienna’s.

I wonder if Rae even remembers her mom. She was so young when we lost her.

I retreat back out into the hall and pull the door shut silently behind me. Then I step down and slowly push open Josh’s.

I frown. His bed is empty, the sheets smoothed over and tucked in neatly at the edges. He does that himself every morning without fail, though no one has ever actually asked him to, as far as I’m aware. But if he’s not in bed, where is…?

Ah. I glance over to see him with his face pressed against the desk. He’s out cold, his hands still fiddling with something in his lap. I’m confused about what it is until I walk over and pull the bundle out from under him.

When I do, my heart breaks.

It’s his basketball shoes. They were in rough shape when we got them from the thrift store, but now, they’re straight-up ruined. There are gaping holes on either sole, with wads of paper towels and duct tape fashioned into some kind of stopgap. He must’ve been trying to fix the damage when he fell asleep.

A tear leaks down my cheek. Since he came to me, he’s never done one single, solitary thing for himself. Everything he does is for his sisters. He makes Reagan eat her vegetables and he helps Caroline paint her nails. He does his chores and theirs. He checks their homework. He’s eight years old and he’s the last thing holding this broken family together.

So when he shyly admitted to me that he wanted to play basketball this year, I wanted so badly to make that happen for him.

But the money just couldn’t work.

Ruslan pays me well, but New York City is expensive and New York City with three growing children (plus one adult-sized baby drinking all the beer) is even more expensive than that. Money just seems to disappear, leaking out through a million different holes. Clothes for school, utilities, rent, and this and that and the other.

Here one second. Gone the next.

Josh knows that. I don’t even have to ask to guess that’s why he was trying to fix his shoes himself instead of asking me to buy him a new pair.

I sink to the floor with my back against the wall and burst into tears. I do it silently because I don’t want to wake him, but the sobs come from somewhere deep, deep down.

I hate how ashamed I am of these tears. Why should I be? If anyone has a reason to cry, it’s me. My boss is an arrogant asshole and my sister is dead and her husband is more of a burden than a help and I have three innocent kids I’m doing my best to raise right but I can’t seem to catch a break and I need sleep and food and more coffee and a vacation and a fresh start and—the list just goes on. One reason for each of my thousand tears.

It’s only when they start to dry up that I force myself to think optimistically. What would Sienna say? I wonder. She can’t answer, of course, but I have some guesses.

Things will get better. They have to.

They sure as hell can’t get any worse.