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    Zukisa looked at her mother, the question clear in her eyes. Francina nodded and followed her toward her aunt’s bedroom. Zukisa did not want to be alone when she opened the door.
    When Francina saw the figure of Zukisa’s aunt asleep on the bed, she was reminded of her father lying in a hospital bed next to a window with a view of the ocean that he never saw. Illness, she had learned, made people seem shrunken, like children again. The last and only time Francina had seen Zukisa’s aunt, terror that the woman would not allow Zukisa to be formally adopted had filled her. But although Zukisa’s aunt had given the appearance of a strong, gruff lady, underneath she was like every woman trying to make it alone in the world with too little money and too many responsibilities. She had agreed to Francina becoming Zukisa’s adoptive mother.
    â€œHello, Auntie,” said Zukisa, touching her arm gently.
    Her aunt awoke, saw Francina, and for an instant seemed confused.
    â€œMy mother and father brought me to see you,” explained Zukisa.
    The wonderment of hearing herself called “mother” had not dimmed over the past years, and Francina doubted it ever would.
    Zukisa’s aunt coughed and the wheezing sound made Francina wince. Zukisa shot Francina a look of helplessness.
    â€œIt’s my heart,” whispered the ill woman. “The doctor called it congestive heart failure.”
    Francina had never heard of this disease, but judging from the tone of her voice and the pallor of her face, it was serious. Serious enough to warrant full-time care. Full-time care from a girl who already knew firsthand the commitment and endurance that would be required. Full-time care from a girl who should be at school.
    In the vain hope that she could distract her daughter from swirling thoughts of sacrifice, Francina moved around the room, collecting dirty glasses and a half-empty plate. Someone—perhaps one of the elderly woman’s grandsons—had brought her food, but not stayed to see if it was eaten. Francina left the room and almost ran into Hercules outside the door.
    â€œIs it bad?” he asked. For the first time in her life, she heard fear in her husband’s voice.
    She nodded.
    â€œWhere are those boys?” he asked. “They should be looking after their grandmother and their sister.”
    The couple looked at the little girl, who waited shyly in the doorway to the living room. Her face and hands were now clean, but her dress needed to be changed. Mercifully, Hercules had turned off the television.
    Dear, sweet Hercules. He was the only man Francina knew who thought boys had just as much responsibility as girls to care for an ailing relative.
    â€œThey’ll come home sooner or later,” she said. But her tone was flat, because she knew—as did Hercules—that the kind of boys who left their young sister and sick grandmother and stayed out all night would not be competent caregivers.
    â€œNothing has been decided yet,” said Francina, looking intently into her husband’s eyes.
    Hercules nodded, but she could tell he didn’t buy it. She didn’t, either. Before something was said that would make her cry, she hurried to the kitchen to discard the half-eaten food and wash the soaking pan and dishes. When she came out with bacon and cheese sandwiches for Zukisa’s aunt and Fundiswa, Hercules was sitting on the couch reading a story to the little girl. Francina wondered if Zukisa’s aunt, even when she was well, had had the time to do this. Looking after three grandchildren was not easy for a woman her age, especially when she had to keep a job to supplement her meager pension.
    When the story was finished, Francina led the little girl to the other bedroom and hunted for a clean dress. There were boys’ clothes in all the drawers but not a sign of any dresses. Hercules, aware of her search, began looking around in the living