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Prologue
Adam
12 years old
Isaac offers me a bite of his banana, shoving a handful of mush toward my mouth, drool dripping over his chubby little fingers.
“Nom, nom,” I say, pretending to take a bite, and he laughs. He’s got those big front teeth on the top now, so he looks funny when he smiles, but he’s still pretty cute.
With those blond curls and big blue eyes, he looks just like Mom.
“Oh, Isaac, you’re a mess,” Mom says with a smile as she wipes his hands clean with a damp paper towel. Then she places a kiss on the top of his head, ruffling his hair. “Adam, will you help the twins get their shoes on? We’re gonna be late.”
She sounds frantic as she scoops my baby brother out of his high chair.
“Of course,” I reply, pushing my breakfast away as I stand up. Just as I start toward the living room, she touches my arm, so I turn toward her. She’s wearing a proud, loving expression as she touches my combed hair, thick with dried gel.
“You look so handsome.” Then she uses her thumb to wipe cereal milk from the corner of my mouth. Grabbing my napkin from the table, I quickly dab my face.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say with a smile.
The house is busy today. Mom and Dad have been planning for this day for months, but it’s still crazy. The seven-year-old twins are fighting about something upstairs, their footsteps thundering through the house. Dad is still up in his office. I can hear him on the phone, his voice booming with frustration, probably over something going wrong today.
I grab Caleb’s and Luke’s black loafers from the rack by the door, then I bound up the stairs to find them. I’m only two steps up when I hear Dad hollering.
“Lucas! Dammit! You got this shit all over my pants.” I freeze, my blood running cold with dread as I wait for the inevitable—Lucas’s howling cry.
“Melanie!” my father shouts, practically shaking the walls. I’m sprinting now, eager to get my little brother away from Dad so he doesn’t yell anymore.
In the upstairs hallway, Lucas is lying on the floor, screaming his head off, red-faced and covered in yogurt and tears.
“Come on, Luke. Get up,” I say gently as I help him to his feet.
He’s holding his cheek as he cries, and sure enough, his hands are covered in white, sticky yogurt. He must have snuck it up here from breakfast, even though he knows that’s against the rules. I quickly shuffle him toward the bathroom to get him cleaned up.
His clothes are disheveled and he messed up his hair, so I try to fix it in a rush. Behind me, my dad stomps down the hall, looking furious. In the mirror’s reflection, I watch as my mother reaches the landing with Isaac in her arms.
Dad scolds her, shaking the empty yogurt cup in her face, while she nods in agreement with his berating words.
She shouldn’t have let him have food upstairs.
She should control these damn boys.
She shouldn’t have had so many fucking kids.
It’s hard to watch, and I don’t like the way Lucas gapes at him with fear. So I kick the door closed and recomb Luke’s hair while he cries, complaining that I’m pulling too hard.
“We’re going to be late!” Dad yells again.
He shouts those five words at least four more times before we get everyone loaded up in the van. And he mutters them again in frustration all the way to church—thenewchurch.
Dad’snew church.
When we pull into the parking lot in the back, I stare up at the giant building and wonder how on earth this could be a church. It’s just bricks and drywall and paint. Our last church had beautiful windows and creaking floors and a comforting smell that you couldn’t find anywhere else in the world. Even on cold days, it felt warm.
But Dad looks proud as he walks ahead of us toward the back entrance, so when he smiles back at Mom, I try to smile along. He seems happy. This could be good for everyone.
Then, for a split second, he glances at me, giving me that beaming smile, and I don’t have to force my grin anymore. When he turns back to the building, I pick up my pace so I can walk next to him.
