Then, when the girls were six, a question arrived that Noah had been dreading.
They were looking through an old family album when Grace pointed at a photograph.
“Uncle Noah, why don’t we live with Mommy?”
Noah froze.
He sat down beside them.
“She died when you were babies.”
Lily looked confused.
“And Daddy?”
“He died too.”
Silence filled the room.
Emma eventually looked at him.
“Then who takes care of us?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Noah looked at all three girls.
“Because I love you.”
Grace thought about that.
“Are you our dad?”
His heart tightened.
“No. I’m your uncle.”
“But you take care of us.”
“Yes.”
“You make our lunch.”
“Yes.”
“You come to school.”
“Yes.”
“And you stay near us when we’re sick.”
Noah smiled.
“Yes.”
Grace considered this information with the uncomplicated logic of a six-year-old.
“So you’re like a dad.”
Noah looked at the three children whose lives had become his life.
