I became Uncle Noah, then Dad, by accident.
“Okay, I have you.
***
Twenty-two years passed, the way a long change does it: slow in the middle, past in the end.
I packed lunches with the wrong kind of bread. I braided their hair so badly that, before school, Mrs. Hunter would fix it on the porch.
“You’re going to give those complex girls, Noah,” my neighbor once said, pulling a brush through Ava’s entanglements.
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know you are. That’s the problem!” She mocked.
“I’m doing the best I can.”
***
I worked double shifts at the hardware store. Then, the triple changes when one of the children needed braces, a science fairboard or new sneakers because the old ones suddenly don’t fit into anyone.
There were science fairs and fevers I sat down for. Broken hearts, I didn’t know how to fix, so I just made grilled cheese and let them cry on the couch.
