It all started so beautifully. When Lily first met Ryan, she had just turned eighteen. She was completely alone in the world—no family, no friends, no one. Her parents had died when she was only six years old. Her only remaining relative was an elderly grandmother who was often ill. Because of her health, the state wouldn't grant her guardianship, and Lily was sent to a foster care facility. Her grandmother visited when she could, but, broken by the tragedy of losing her son and daughter-in-law, she didn't live much longer. After her passing, Lily inherited a nice two-bedroom apartment ...

Kate Miller was a woman of strong will and clear purpose—or at least, that's how everyone knew her. The young woman lived with her husband in a company-owned housing complex provided by the manufacturing plant where they both worked. It was a weathered, old-school brick building with long hallways and communal bathrooms at either end. The shared kitchen was the heart of the building, never empty, especially in the evenings when the neighborhood women gathered to trade gossip. They were the ones who knew everything about everyone; nothing escaped their watchful eyes. Kate had no taste for that kind of ...

For as long as she could remember, throughout almost her entire childhood and youth, Chloe had dreamed of escaping poverty and fleeing from her perpetually drunk parents. The neighbors would often feed the girl and take her in for the night when things became unbearable—when her parents, once again, would drink until their gathering devolved into a violent drunken brawl. On those nights, Chloe was almost happy; the kind neighbors fed her, and she slept in a warm, and most importantly, clean bed. But happiness never lasted long. In the morning, her mother or father, hungover and angry, would come ...

Neighbors and strangers often mistake me for a mother of three. These days, having three kids is considered a large family, but the truth is that one of the little ones isn't my son. Leo is my nephew. He recently turned four, and he's spent half his life living with us. He calls me "Mom" and my husband "Dad," and he considers our two boys his brothers. He doesn't remember his own parents anymore, and whether they ever think of him is anyone's guess. Sometimes I wished they would just formally give him up so I could legally adopt him. ...

Clara stood by the window, watching heavy raindrops drum against the sill. A biting wind howled outside; autumn was firmly taking hold. It was her first autumn without him, and she had been terrified that memory would collapse upon her like a landslide, burying her under the events of a year ago and these endless, pouring rains. In the crib, her baby boy slept fitfully, as if sensing her mood, her grief, and a certain inexplicable sense of hopelessness. Clara was waiting for her friend, who watched the baby whenever Clara had to pull a night shift at the manufacturing ...