So I built myself a quiet life. Slow mornings. Peaceful nights.
Nothing exciting, but it was steady. Predictable. Until two months ago, when Jenny—my 34-year-old sister—called just after midnight, sobbing so hard I couldn’t even understand her.
She’d left her boyfriend—or rather, she’d fled.
She didn’t tell me much, but I gathered enough: controlling, jealous, angry. Her kids, seven-year-old Mason and four-year-old Lila, were strapped into the backseat as she drove who-knows-where. She asked if they could stay with me for a few days.
“Get here,” I said immediately. “You and the kids can stay as long as you need.”
I meant every word. They arrived early the next morning.
Jenny looked like she hadn’t slept in days. The kids were silent, stiff with uncertainty. Mason held onto his stuffed raccoon like it was a life preserver, while Lila blinked up at me with wide, confused eyes.
I grabbed their bags, showed them to the guest rooms, and told them this was home for now. The first few weeks felt heavy. Jenny barely spoke.
Sometimes I’d find her staring out the window, expression hollow. Whenever Mason asked, “When are we going back home?” she’d only say, “Not yet, sweetie.” I didn’t pry. I started waking up earlier, making breakfast by 7 a.m.—eggs, toast, something warm and normal—to help the kids feel grounded.
But soon, the vibe shifted. “Eggs again?” Mason muttered one morning, poking his plate. “You don’t like eggs?” I asked, surprised.
Lila, sitting cross-legged on her chair, wrinkled her nose. “I want pancakes.”
I exhaled. “Well, Uncle Mike’s making breakfast today.
If you don’t like it, maybe Mom can make something else?”
They glanced at each other and then sprinted upstairs like I’d insulted them personally. Jenny didn’t come downstairs until 1 p.m. Again.
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