I was eighteen when I fought to keep my seven siblings together after our parents died. For three years, I thought I was barely holding us above water. Then my youngest brother found an old photo, and the truth on the back changed everything I believed about my family.
I was eighteen when I opened the door and found two police officers on our porch.
Behind me, Lila was laughing in the kitchen because Tommy had poured cereal into a saucepan and called it “breakfast soup.” Phoebe was yelling and calling him gross.
Sybil was looking for her left shoe.
Ethan and Adam were arguing over a hoodie neither of them owned, and Benji was dragging his blanket across the floor like a tiny, tired ghost.
For ten seconds, life was normal.
Then one officer said, “Are you Rowan?”
I knew before he finished. The look on his face said it all.
My hand stayed on the doorknob. “Yes.”
His partner looked past me at my siblings like he already knew where all seven of them would fall.
“There’s been an accident,” he said.
“And your parents didn’t survive it.”
I heard Lila stop laughing.
“What?” I asked, because my brain decided to become useless.
“I’m sorry, son. I suggest you call some family over to help.”
Tommy wandered into the hall with milk on his shirt. “Rowan?”
I turned around.
Seven faces waited for me to tell them what to do.
I shut the door halfway so they couldn’t see the officers’ faces, and I said, “Everybody sit down.”
Phoebe whispered, “Where are Mom and Dad?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
***
A few days later, Ms. Hart from child services sat across from me at our kitchen table with a folder thick enough to ruin my life.
Tommy was asleep on the couch. Lila and Phoebe stood in the hallway, pretending not to listen.
“These children will need temporary placement,” Ms.
Hart said.
“Together?” I asked.
She looked down at the folder. That was answer enough.
Lila made a small sound from the hallway.
I kept my eyes on Ms. Hart.
“They just lost Mom and Dad.”
“I know, Rowan,” she said gently.
“No. If you did, you wouldn’t be telling me to split them up like mismatched socks.”
Her face softened. “Rowan, you’re eighteen.”
“I know how old I am.”
“You have no degree and no steady income.
According to the paperwork, the mortgage is behind.”
“I can work. I can learn. Just don’t split them up.”
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