We’re living in an apartment complex, a bit run down and seedy. But this is all we can afford.
In the apartment across the way, a young couple live with their two small children. The woman is slight, dark haired and sickly. Her husband is darker, brows constantly knotted with rage. His mentally-challenged brother lives with them.
It is a sad family.
News spreads through the complex from neighbor to neighbor like crows carrying misfortune from field to field.
I am work when my wife calls to tell me that the sickly woman has passed away, leaving the husband on his own to care for their children and his brother as best he can.
The whispers don’t quite reach the point of wondering if he was the one who killed her.
I see him walking, the baby in his arms and the older daughter — just only four years old — and want to offer to help. But I do not. I have a family of my own, after all.
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