I raised my brother’s daughters like they were my own.
Not because I chose to.
Because he left.
Fifteen years ago, Edwin buried his wife and disappeared before the flowers had even settled. No explanation. No goodbye. Just gone.
A few days later, his daughters showed up at my door with a social worker and one overfilled suitcase. They were three, five, and eight.
That first night, the house felt too quiet. Dora kept asking when her mother was coming back. Jenny cried for a week, then stopped talking about it completely. Lyra refused to unpack her clothes because she didn’t want to get comfortable.
I kept telling myself Edwin would come back. He had to. No one just walks away like that.
But he didn’t.
Weeks passed. Then months. Then years.
