“She was…bright,” I say, my voice soft. “She hummed under her breath. Danced in the kitchen. She smelled like lavender hand lotion and let me stay up late to read. She stuck neon Post-its in my lunchbox with Shakespeare quotes and notes like,‘You’ve got this, kiddo.’”
I swallow hard, my throat catching. “She was kind. Even when she was tired. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
A tear falls, slipping down my cheek before I can stop it, and I don’t care who’s looking, who sees it. I’m too lost in the memory.
“I’ve forgotten her voice,” I whisper. “I remember her laugh, but not her voice. Isn’t that messed up?”
Carrson squeezes my hand. Not pitying. Just to let me know he’s there.
“She sounds amazing,” Carrson says, his eyes on me, soft, almost tender.
“She was.” Another tear falls, and I brush it aside. “I didn’t realize how much I depended on her until she was gone. It’s like the world shifted after she died. Everything felt less predictable. Less safe.”
I look up at Carrson. “What about you? Do you ever think about your mom? Wonder about her?”
His gaze drifts back to the window, his expression unreadable. “We’re told from the time we’re young that we don’t have a mother.”
“That’s so wrong.” I blink, sit up straighter. “Everyone has a mother.”
“I know.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “That’s just what the Fathers say. That The Order is all the family we’ll ever need…” He trails off for a second, then shrugs. “Yeah. I’ve wondered. Of course I have.”
He exhales, a small huff of laughter. “I had this fantasy when I was a kid. Never told anyone, figured I’d get in trouble just for thinking it.”
“What was it?” I ask, watching the nostalgic tilt of his mouth, the flicker of something softer in his eyes.
“I used to wish Sam’s mom was mine.” The edge of his mouth curls with something wistful. “She’s the only person I’ve ever seen challenge my father and walk away in one piece.”
He looks down at his cup, gaze distant. “That’s where Sam gets it from, her fearlessness.” A pause. His voice lowers. “Sometimes I imagined her mom would come for me, say I’d been hers all along, take me away to live at her house.” His jaw flexes. The smile fades. “Stupid, I know.” He takes a long sip of his coffee. “Kid stuff.”
“It’s not stupid,” I say, quiet but firm. “Wanting to belong somewhere? That’snotstupid.”
He doesn’t look at me, just keeps his eyes on the cup, turning it slowly between his hands.
I shift in my seat, unsure if I’m making it better or worse. “I used to wish for that too. Not Sam’s mom, obviously. But someone. Anyone. To come get me, which made me feel bad since I still had my dad, but it wasn’t enough. I needed someone to help.”
He glances at me, and I catch the flicker of understanding in his eyes. He’s met my dad. He knowswhat I mean.
We’re quiet for a beat, then Carrson leans in, lowering his voice like he’s letting me in on a secret. “Want to hear something crazy?”
I nod, shifting toward him.
“Sam and I have this theory that our parents were bonded once.” He widens his eyes, dramatically, like he’s daring me to believe it. “When they’re in the same room, the tension’s unbearable. Simmering anger, hostility, but underneath it, there’s also this weird attraction. Like they still want each other and hate that they do.” He huffs a dry laugh and shakes his head. “It’s intense. Like standing on a powder keg and not knowing who’s going to light the fuse.”
“If they were bonded,” I say, thinking out loud, “your dad and Sam’s mom, that means he chose her to become a Mother. Gave her the chance to have Samantha. Shouldn’t she be, I don’t know, grateful?”
Carrson’s smile fades. “She doesn’t seem like it. No one talks about who the Mother belonged to before she had her daughter. It’s forbidden.”
Forbidden.
I hesitate, then ask, “Have you ever thought about trying to findyourreal mom? Or figure out how any of you, the Brothers, the Sisters, came into the world? I mean, you weren’t hatched out of eggs. Someone carried you. Gave birth to you.”
Carrson stares at his cup for a long moment.
“I’ve been too busy thinking about Rose,” he says quietly. “She’s more…” He trails off, searching for the right word. “Tangible, I guess. Something I could almost reach for. Maybe because she has a name. That makes her feel real.”
His head dips.
“It’s pointless anyway,” he murmurs, defeat etched into the slope of his shoulders. “I’ll never find her or my mother. Not unless someone talks. Tells the truth…and around here?” He laughs once, without humor. “Silence is a virtue.”
