I stand at the kitchen window overlooking the playground, the swings swaying gently even though I feel no breeze through the open window. My hands are in the sink, mostly moving the dishes around the bottom of the water. I don’t want to turn around to face the voices behind me. I can hear my friend comforting her mom, while my mom and aunts surround them both.

She kneels by her sister’s bed in the living room, and I don’t understand what she’s saying to her, but I hear her voice catching in her throat, so I imagine I do know what she’s said.

I give up the pretense and grab a towel to dry my hands. I look across the room and see she’s not breathing anymore, and I realize this is the moment we were all waiting on. We knew why we were here; that doesn’t make it any easier.

I go stand behind my friend, grab my mom’s hand next to me and give it a squeeze. I’m grateful they’re all here with them, with her, and wonder whether it’s fair that my aunts are here. The intent is good, but what does that matter when she’s the last one in her family while mine still have each other?

My friend tries to pull her away, tells her that she’ll stay overnight or however long she wants to at her house, she’ll have her granddaughter, but her mom shakes her head, doesn’t let go of her sister’s hand.

Do we wait longer, or do we make the call now?

There’s a knock at the door, and look at my friend, signal that I’ll answer it, let go of my mom’s hand and walk over to the oak door.

There are two men in suits standing there, and they want to know where he is.

We don’t know, I say, and they step inside, looking around, looking at each other before walking out without a word.