Jeremy gave a tight smile. “Physically, yes. He’s quiet, withdrawn, but cooperative. I was actually just about to check in on him. You can come with me.”
The corridor we walked down buzzed with the kind of fluorescent lights that made your skin look gray. The walls were covered in faded murals, attempts at cheerfulness that only made the emptiness worse.
And then we turned a corner.
There, sitting cross-legged on a wooden bench, was Ethan.
He was thinner than I remembered. Pale. His dark curls were longer, messier, and his hands were folded neatly in his lap like he was trying to take up less space. His eyes stayed locked on the floor.
“Ethan.” My voice cracked.
He looked up slowly, cautiously, and stared at me with blank recognition.
“It’s Aunt Monica,” I whispered, kneeling beside him. “I’m here to take you home.”
No spark, no tears, no resistance—just quiet. He didn’t reach for me, but he didn’t pull away either when I held out my hand.
Jeremy gave a small nod. “We’ll get the release paperwork started.”
The car ride was silent. Ethan stared out the passenger window, watching the city blur past. I didn’t push him. I didn’t fill the space with questions. I just kept glancing at him, memorizing the curve of his jaw, the way his hands clutched the seat belt strap—not in fear exactly, but in that careful way of someone bracing for the next bad thing.
When we reached my house, I guided him in gently.
“This is your room now,” I said, opening the door to the guest room. “It’s not much yet, but we’ll fix it up however you want.”
He looked at the bed like it was a foreign object. I had to stop myself from crying.
In the kitchen, I heated up a pot of chicken noodle soup—the real kind, not the canned stuff. I poured it into a wide bowl and placed crackers on the side, then brought it to the small table where he sat rigid.
“You don’t have to eat all of it,” I said softly, setting the bowl down. “Just take a bite if you want.”
He didn’t move at first.
Then, with a hesitation that nearly broke me in half, he picked up the spoon.
One scoop, then another. No words, but he didn’t stop eating until the bowl was nearly empty.
I crouched beside him. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I whispered. “You’re safe now. I promise.”
He turned his head slightly toward me, eyes still unreadable. But for the first time since we’d left the shelter, I saw a flicker. Not quite hope. Not yet. But something softer than before.
“Do you want to rest?” I asked.
Ethan nodded once.
I guided him back to his room, helped him climb into the bed, and pulled the blanket over him. He curled up on his side like a question mark, facing the wall. I sat in the doorway for a long while just watching him breathe.
He was here. In my home. In my care.
Ashley had tried to erase him, but I wouldn’t let her.
That night, after washing the soup bowl and setting a glass of water by his bed, I sat quietly on the edge of the mattress while Ethan curled into the far side, facing the wall. His small shoulder blades jutted up beneath the thin fabric of his shirt like folded wings. It broke my heart in a thousand places.
The lamp on the nightstand cast a warm amber glow across the pale walls, but the room still felt like it held its breath. I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound like a lie, or a promise too big for a kid to believe. So I didn’t say much. I just sat there, hands folded in my lap, counting his breaths—gentle, shallow inhales.
His fingers were clenched into the edge of the blanket like he was anchoring himself there. I wanted to ask him what she’d said to him, what she’d done. But I knew those answers weren’t mine to pull out. They’d have to come when he was ready.
Before I left the room, I reached out and lightly tucked the blanket closer to his chest. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t acknowledge it either. Still, it felt like something.
When I closed the door behind me, I leaned against it for a long moment, letting the weight of the day settle in. My throat ached—not from tears. I hadn’t let myself cry yet. But from holding back everything I wanted to scream at Ashley.
How could she have looked at that boy, at that fragile shell of a child, and thought disposable?
The next few days blurred together in quiet struggle. Ethan didn’t speak, not even a whisper. He didn’t make eye contact either. When I spoke to him—gently, always gently—his eyes would drift just past my face like he was looking for the nearest exit.
He avoided touch. If I moved too quickly or reached to hand him something, he’d shrink back like a startled animal.
Once, when I walked into the kitchen and found him crouched beneath the table holding a piece of toast, I pretended I hadn’t seen him and backed out quietly.
Later that day, I found him in the hall closet, curled up between an old vacuum and a stack of board games, knees hugged tight to his chest. I sat down outside the door and just started talking, voice low and calm. Not about him, but around him. Nonsense things like the bird feeder I needed to refill. The weird neighbor who had three identical lawn gnomes. How I used to think the moon followed me when I was his age.
I never asked questions. Never demanded attention. I just wanted him to know I was there.
On the third night, I made grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner. I left his plate on the table and turned my back, washing dishes while pretending not to notice that he slowly emerged from the hallway, took his seat, and finished every bite.
That same night, as I tucked him in again, I knelt down beside the bed and folded my arms on the edge of the mattress. He was curled on his side again, eyes open, but still far away.
“You don’t have to talk, buddy,” I said softly. “You don’t even have to look at me. But I just want you to know something.”
He blinked once.
“You’re safe here. That’s not going to change.”
For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
