“Why were you in foster care?” she asks in confusion. “I mean if you have a half brother. And Owen mentioned his parents more than once tonight. Why didn’t his family take you in?” A sick feeling crawls through me. “They just didn’t.” “How much older is he?” “Two years. He was eight when Mom died. But he wasn’t living with us at that point,” I explain. “Mom and Owen’s dad got divorced when Owen was one. Then she met my dad and got pregnant with me almost right away. Owen lived with us until about a year before she died.” “Were you close?” “Best friends. Still are.” I hold up my wrist. “He’s
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