He owned approximately seventeen gray hoodies.
But somehow, they fit together.
Maya could make Eli laugh when nobody else could.
Eli could tell when Maya was upset before she said a word.
They fought over the bathroom, borrowed each other’s chargers without permission, insulted each other’s music, and still ended almost every night sitting on the kitchen counter talking long after they were supposed to be asleep.
I used to joke that raising twins meant having two children and one shared nervous system.
Then, in February, Maya started getting headaches.
At first, we thought it was stress.
Senior year.
College applications.
Too little sleep.
Then she collapsed during rehearsal for the spring musical.
A week later, we were sitting in a hospital conference room listening to a doctor explain a diagnosis none of us were ready to hear.
