I STARTED TAKING CARE OF MY NIECE AND NEPHEW—BUT THEIR DAD LEFT OUT ONE BIG DETAIL I never thought I’d be riding through town with a tutu poking me in the ribs and a foam sword strapped to my back. But here we are. It started with a phone call from my brother. Said he needed help for “a couple weeks” while he sorted things out with his new job. I said sure. His wife died last year, and he finally found a new job so they could move and start their new lives. I didn’t ask questions. I should’ve. Next thing I know, I’ve got two kids at my door—Sofie with a unicorn backpack bigger than her, and Milo wearing a traffic cop vest and asking if I have any “real sirens.” They were supposed to stay for a few weeks. That was three months ago. I don’t mind the chaos. I’ve grown used to the early morning cereal debates and dance parties in the kitchen. I bought a bigger bike just to fit them both. They call me “Funkle Max”—fun uncle—and tell everyone I’m their backup grown-up. But the weird thing is, my brother stopped calling. First, he said he was working late. Then he just… didn’t pick up. I didn’t say anything to the kids. What was I supposed to say? Then last weekend, Sofie was digging through the front basket and pulled out an envelope I hadn’t seen before. No stamp. Just my name written in my brother’s handwriting. She handed it to me like it was no big deal. But my stomach dropped. (continues in the first )

I never imagined that I would be riding through town with a foam sword attached to my back and a tutu jabbing me in the ribs. However, here we are.

It all began when my brother Ronan called. claimed that while he worked out his new position, he required assistance for “a couple weeks.” I made no inquiries.

I ought to have. He had been struggling to keep his composure ever since his wife, Amira, had perished in a car accident the previous year. I agreed when he mentioned that he needed some

assistance with the kids while he settled in. No issue. A few bedtime stories, school pickups, and Sunday pancake frying, I assumed, were all fleeting. Nothing significant.

The next thing I know, two tiny people are looking up at me as I stand in my doorway in my slippers. Milo, seven, wearing a traffic cop jacket, asked if I had any “real sirens” he could borrow, and Sofie, five, sporting glitter leggings and a unicorn backpack nearly as large as her body.

Three months have passed since then.

The first week was all about surviving. I didn’t realize how much energy two children could produce. They were tiny cyclones of inquiries, dance steps, requests for snacks, and quite particular bedtime customs. I looked up how to braid hair on Google. I found out exactly lightbulb Sofie needs in order to avoid having “lava frog dreams.” Milo was afraid of bees, but only when they were on television, I found out. Actual bees? Alright. Bees in cartoons? Not at all.

To accommodate them both, I purchased a larger bike. Milo would ride in the back, resembling a little motorcade, while Sofie would ride in front. They introduced me to their friends as though I were a famous substitute for their absent parent, calling me “Funkle Max”—fun uncle.

I came to enjoy the mayhem. The arguments over cereal in the morning, the spontaneous dance-offs in the kitchen, and the way they both crammed themselves into my bed like a life raft during thunderstorms.

Then, though, something began to feel strange.

My brother ceased making calls.

Initially, it was minor stuff like late texts and missed calls. Then nothing. He didn’t reply to my texts with updates, photos, and small details I thought he would find interesting, like Sofie loosing her

first tooth or Milo’s “police station” constructed out of couch cushions. I attempted to call fifteen times in a row one weekend. No response. I gave his workplace a call. Three weeks ago, they said, he had resigned. simply packed up and went.