Nigdy się nie ożeniłem, bo całe życie samotnie wychowywałem bliźniaków mojego brata. Ale to, co zrobili po osiemnastym roku życia, całkowicie mnie sparaliżowało.

Then I noticed something beside the photograph.

A small brass plaque.

I read it.

For Clara.

Who taught us that family isn’t always about who gives you life.

Sometimes it’s about who stays.

I couldn’t speak.

Mason came up behind me.

“You stayed.”

Noah stood beside him.

“So we stayed too.”

I turned around.

And for the first time in thirteen years, I allowed myself to believe something I had never dared to believe before.

Maybe my life wasn’t over.

Maybe it was just beginning.

The following months were strange.

Beautiful.

Terrifying.

I moved into Elmwood Ridge.

The boys stayed for the summer before college.

The house slowly became a home.

We planted flowers.

Painted the bedrooms.

Bought furniture from thrift stores.

Argued over where the dining table should go.

Burned two dinners.

Laughed until our stomachs hurt.

And one Sunday afternoon, while we were sitting on the porch, Noah looked at me.

“Aunt Clara?”

“Yes?”

“When was the last time you went on a date?”

I nearly choked on my lemonade.

“What kind of question is that?”