Oliver held his coat over my head as we dashed across the brick walkway, rain sluicing off our backs. Once up the stone steps leading to the tiled wraparound porch, we shook off like two drenched dogs before I noticed that the oak door that led into the foyer was cracked open. It wasn’t exactly unimaginable seeing a door left open, with three kids constantly running in and out. The strangeness of it only struck me when I walked inside.

A chill followed me in, crawled up my legs, hung in the foyer. Water pounded the roof like a drum, but the heart of the house was eerily quiet and black as a scorched wick. I had expected to find Vera awake with Eliot and Sydney watching a Disney movie marathon, popcorn scattered across the floor, but only the squeak of our shoes disturbed the hush.

It was far too dark and far too quiet for this early hour with a night-owl teen among us.

I ran my hand along the wall until I felt the switch and flicked it on. Light from the chandelier bounced off the glossy woodwork.

“It looks like Vera actually put the younger ones to bed on time.” Oliver stepped out of his wet shoes and hung up his coat.

“I’m going to go check on the kids really quick,” I said as I headed up the staircase. At the top of the first floor, the stained-glass reflections of the original owners—an 1880s glass-manufacturing power couple—stared dully at me.

I rounded the corner, aiming straight for Eliot’s room first. He’d likely still be awake, because he couldn’t sleep until my lips touched his forehead, my arms squeezed him close, and my prayer over him reached God’s ears. I was surprised—and admittedly a tad wounded—that he was already asleep in bed, his Marvel comforter twisted around his feet and pillow fallen to the floor. For his eighth birthday he had wanted a whole new room décor. Marvel everything, from the Thor nightlight, to the Spider-Man lamp, to the Iron Man chair. I hoped some other little boy was now enjoying the Tigger-themed bedroom set that we had donated to Goodwill. I tiptoed to his bed, lightly pressed my lips to his sweat-dampened head—both he and his father got as hot as furnaces when they slept—and pulled his blanket up to his chin.

Next was Sydney’s princess pink room, where I found her with two fingers tucked upside down in her mouth. An involuntary tremor shot through my carpal-tunneled wrists. It looked painfully uncomfortable, but she preferred it to her thumb and we hadn’t made the effort to break her of it yet. By kid number three, we had given up on the child-molding we had applied to Vera and Eliot. I figured we could tackle the upside-down finger sucking once she reached her fourth birthday.