I remember when it was just the three of us. I was nine or 10, coming home at lunches or after school by myself because she had to work and my sister was doing new, teenage things. I remember her coming home, in her blouses and skirts, and hustling to make us dinners, meat loafs, mac and cheese, rice puddings. It was a difficult time for her, newly single, broken hearted, trying to find someone to spend time with and care for two growing children. We lived in an apartment building with other similarly schemed families, all relying on one another to make sure the kids were occupied, not stranded or filling the gaps of idle times with danger.