Two weeks later, temporary guardianship became mine.
I celebrated by throwing up in the courthouse bathroom.
After that, life became a list of groceries, bills, shoes, permission slips, nightmares, and who had lied about having nightmares.
“I don’t want Aunt Denise. I want Rowan.”
I dropped out of community college and worked wherever I could. I took warehouse mornings, grocery shifts, and weekend deliveries.
I learned that you could sleep standing up.
Mrs. Dalrymple next door became our miracle in orthopedic shoes.
She watched the kids and refused every dollar I offered.
“Pay me back by not burning down your kitchen,” she said, setting a casserole on our counter.
“I only burned rice once.”
“Rice isn’t supposed to smoke, Rowan.”
Lila laughed for the first time that week.
I dropped out of community college.
Three years passed like that. They were not easy or clean, but we stayed together.
I learned which teachers assumed I was irresponsible before I even opened my mouth. I learned how to argue with insurance companies while packing lunches. I learned to put back my fancy deodorant so Tommy could get his favorite cereal.
One night, Sybil found me in the kitchen, staring at the electric bill.
“You’re doing the face again,” she said.
“What face?”
“The ‘I might sell a kidney, but only after coupons’ face.”
Three years passed.
I laughed because the other option was folding in half. “Go to bed, Sybil.”
She sat across from me instead. “Show me the bill.”
“No.”
“Rowan.”
“You are eleven. Your job is to hate vegetables and lose library books.”
“And your job is to stop pretending you’re not scared.”
I folded the piece of paper and slid it under my notebook.
“Show me the bill.”
Sybil reached across the table. “You don’t have to do everything alone. You have us.”
That made it worse. I wanted them to be kids, not backup adults.
Aunt Denise came by the next afternoon.
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