There were many nights when I wondered if I was doing enough or if I was getting any of it right. But looking back now, I can follow everything that happened back to one choice I made on a normal October night.

The porch light was flickering that October, throwing a narrow yellow circle across the wooden boards. I came home after a double shift, smelling like sawdust and motor oil, my keys already in my hand, and I nearly stumbled over them.

Three car seats, one diaper bag, and a note scribbled on a gas receipt.

I picked up the receipt first because my mind refused to accept what was sitting inside those car seats. My brother Daniel’s handwriting leaned sharply to the right, just like it always had.

“I’m sorry, Noah. I can’t do this.”

That was all. No phone number. No address to follow.