They grew in bursts. One day footie pajamas and Sesame Street giggles, the next arguing over who carried groceries.
“Mom, why don’t you eat the big piece of chicken?” Liam asked at eight.
“Because I want you to grow taller than me,” I said, smiling through rice and broccoli.
“I already am,” he grinned.
“By half an inch,” Noah muttered, rolling his eyes.
They were different. Liam was the spark—stubborn, quick with words, always challenging rules. Noah was the echo—thoughtful, measured, quietly holding things together.
We had rituals: Friday movie nights, pancakes on test days, always a hug before leaving the house, even when they pretended it embarrassed them.
When they got into the dual-enrollment program, I cried in the parking lot after orientation. We’d done it. After all the hardship, skipped meals, and extra shifts—we’d made it.
Until the Tuesday that shattered everything.
