Fifteen years ago, my brother Edwin stood beside his wife’s grave—and then disappeared before the flowers had even settled. No warning. No goodbye. No explanation. Just absence.
A social worker showed up at my door with his three daughters and one overstuffed suitcase that looked far too small to carry the weight of what had just happened.
They were three, five, and eight.
That first night, the house felt unbearably still. The youngest, Dora, kept asking when her mother was coming home. Lyra refused to unpack her clothes because she didn’t want to “get too comfortable.” And Jenny, the oldest, stopped crying after the first week—not because she was fine, but because something in her seemed to decide that talking about pain wouldn’t bring anyone back.
At first, I kept telling myself Edwin would return.
