Growing up, my aunt had always been my biggest cheerleader. She moved in with my dad and I when my mom and uncle were killed in a car wreck on their way to the airport. No one could ever figure what they were doing together and where they were going. Neither my aunt or my father knew their respective spouses were going on a trip together or even going away together.
Since my uncle was the primary breadwinner in the family and my aunt had been out of work for a few months, it made the most sense for her to move into our extra bedroom. Her moving solved the problem of the silence that loomed throughout the house. And my aunt paid attention to me in my grief when my father tried to pretend nothing had happened. He always prided our family on not keeping secrets and then my mom tried to disappear with my uncle.
After getting over the fact my mother ran away from all our lives without me, I started to relish how quiet it was in our house. My mom and I got on for the most part, but now most of what I could remember of her was the fighting. My aunt was a much more calming presence in my life and in the house. Until the day I found out she was not really my aunt at all. But my sister. My mother had been running away with my brother-in-law.