Two weeks after the services, Jenna moved in.
She said she wanted to help.
She packed school lunches.
She learned how Lily liked her hair brushed, gentle and slow, with a part down the middle.
She figured out Maya’s favorite bedtime songs and played them from her phone while the girls settled under blankets.
At first, it looked like love.
When Maya wrote Jenna’s name as an emergency contact in a glittery notebook she carried everywhere, Jenna got teary-eyed and said something about how she had always wanted younger sisters.
I believed her.
I wanted to believe her.
The truth is, I needed to believe her.
Because I was exhausted, and hope can be a kind of fuel.
The First Signs Something Was Off
A few months passed.
Grief became routine.
Not easier, exactly, but more familiar. The girls started laughing again in small bursts. They made friends at school. They argued over cereal like normal kids.
And Jenna’s kindness started to feel less natural.
It was subtle at first.
Tight smiles.
A sigh when the girls asked for help with homework.
A comment about how the house felt smaller than she expected.
I told myself it was stress.
Everyone was under pressure. I was juggling work, guardianship paperwork, and daily life. Jenna was adjusting too, I thought.
Then came an afternoon that changed everything.
