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On the afternoon that our new brother came home, Abby and I sat playing checkers on the window seat in the dining room. Our perch overlooked the front yard, where at any moment our parents would drive up and park Dad’s black sedan under the tree by the front porch of the three-bedroom colonial we called home. That tree held a lot of memories for us Valentines. It was the one I fell out of when I was eight and broke my right arm. It was the tree where we took cover from snowball fights in the winter, and the tree where our dad tied up a swing for Abby when she was four years old. It was that same swing she fell off of last summer and broke her leg. She hadn’t cried a bit — she was so tough when it came to things like that. I was sure that when her age, I probably would have.

On that snowy day in January, the winter sun shone bright against the new fallen snow as we hid indoors from the cold. The warmth of the rays penetrated through the window panes and soaked itself into the fabric of the sweater I wore. I pulled at the neck of my sweater and picked at the red cushion on the window seat. I captured two of Abby’s pieces in one move and she pouted at me.

“Come on, Abs. You don’t want me to let you win, do you?”

She pressed her lips together and wrinkled her nose at me, a facial expression that belied her nearly five and a half years.

“No,” she said at last. “I want to win fair and square.”

I laughed and shook my head at her. Abby was a precocious little girl, and I adored her.

“Then you’ll need to start playing smarter,” I chided her.

She put her hand out to make the next move, but caught sight out of the shiny black sedan making its way up the snowy driveway. She snatched her hand away and jumped down from the window seat, knocking over the board in the process and scattering checkers all over the floor.

“Oh, they’re here!”

“Abs!” I protested loudly. “What about our game?”

“They’re here, Jack. Forget about the silly game.” She pointed out the window impatiently.

Our father’s sedan came to a halt underneath our tree, the snowy chatter of the tires up the drive finally being silenced. The pristine white snow found itself juxtaposed against the dark car parked on top of it. I knew that I would remember today because it was an important one — just like I remembered all the other days of importance in my nearly twelve years of life.

I remembered the day that my sister had been born clearly, like a clean, crisp sheet of paper in an album with an over-saturated photograph pasted neatly at the top of the page. Underneath it the caption would read in bold, black letters: Abigail May Valentine, born August 12th. A little farther back in the album would be one of my toddler photos, taken at the local department store. There would be a blue-carpeted background against my dark hair and my deep green eyes. My mother would have dressed me in a navy sweater, since she always said it brought out my eyes. Underneath the caption would read: Jack Francis Valentine, born April 11th.

I would remember today because it was the day that Daniel came home. Daniel Thomas Eagan. He wasn’t a Valentine yet, but once the adoption papers had gone through he would be just as much a part of our family as Abby and I were. He was nine months older than me, so we were inheriting an older brother.

We watched as the car doors opened and out popped three heads. Two were the familiar ones of our mom and dad. The third was an unfamiliar reddish-brown one. He was about my height — maybe even a little taller, but I was tall for my age. He had pale ashen skin and wide eyes. I couldn’t tell what color from where we stood, but they were dark. A mass of freckles spread across his nose, which no doubt caused him endless cruelties in the schoolyard. I imagined however, that they came in handy when you were trying to look cute enough to get adopted. It had worked on my mother, at least… or rather, our mother.

As they trod up the walkway and up the steps to the house, Abby and I watched from behind the full-length glass storm door. Our mother was smiling down at Daniel, her hand on the back of his head. Our father carried a small black suitcase that could not have contained more than a dozen items of clothing even if had it been stuffed to capacity.

It was the picture of a happy family, the crust of the snow-topped trees behind them sparkling in the full winter sun. I captured the moment in my mind. The date was January 4th.