Three months earlier, our family had been ordinary.
At least, ordinary enough.
Eli and his twin sister, Maya, were finishing their senior year at Westbridge High in a small Pennsylvania town where everybody seemed to know everybody else’s business.
The twins had been inseparable since birth.
Maya was louder.
Eli was quieter.
She talked to strangers in grocery-store lines.
He preferred headphones and books.
She loved bright colors.
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.
