I look down at my hands and let my shoulders sag in defeat. “Of course not. I didn’t understand how big and unforgiving the world was.”
He studies me a moment longer, then shifts, crossing one ankle over the other. “Your brother’s world is no place for a woman raised in a good Christian home.”
“I understand that now,” I murmur.
For a long moment he simply watches me, as if waiting for me to say something more. When I don’t speak, he nods slowly.
“It is a blessing,” he says at last, “that you found your way home.”
I lower my gaze as respectfully as I can.
“You should unpack and get some rest,” he says. “But understand this, you’re not free to come and go as you please. While you remain under this roof, you’ll respect the order of this household. That means telling us where you’re going, who you’ll be with, and when you intend to return.”
I nod, careful not to challenge him. “Yes, sir. And thank you for taking me back.”
He turns to leave, believing I failed at living on my own. He believes I came crawling back and that I’m dependent again. And that is exactly what I need him to think.
After he leaves, I explore my old room. It looks exactly like it did when I left a couple of months ago. Nothing has changed. The bed is made up just the way I left it with the hospital corners my foster mother always insisted on.
I set my bag on the floor and stand there for a second, remembering what it was like to get up early, make breakfast and wake up the other kids. How it felt to do chores all day long and fall into bed exhausted at night. I have very few good memories of this room, this house and the people living here.
I kneel beside the wall and slide my fingers along the dusty return vent until I feel the two loose screws. My hand is steady when I turn them. The metal cover lifts with a soft scrape. Inside is a packet wrapped in thick plastic. It’s tucked deep into the ductwork, where only I can find it. I reach in and pull the small pouch I’ve kept hidden since I was twelve. That’s when my social worker gave it to me.
I draw it out slowly and carry it to the bed. The plastic makes a noise when I peel it back. Inside are a hospital wrist tag, a tiny pink blanket edged in yellow crochet, and a faded photograph of my mother with a note on the back in shaky letters.
I sit on the edge of the mattress with the blanket in my hands. Tears come and spill down my cheeks before I can stop them. I’ve always believed my mother was more than her addiction. I keep picturing in my mind’s eye the woman she must have been before everything went wrong and her life got derailed by drugs. She’d already had one child taken away from her. She’d walked into that hospital believing she’d walk back out with a baby in her arms. I hold the blanket to my chest and think about how different all three of our lives might have been if she’d gotten help, support, and the treatment she needed instead of falling into a crack in the system.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand before tucking my baby things back into the plastic and sliding the pouch carefully into my duffel bag rather than back into the vent. I’m not leaving these precious heirlooms behind a second time.
I begin unpacking my things. At the bottom of my bag, beneath clothes and toiletries, is the burner phone Bear gave me. It’s a small, plain, inexpensive model. I power it on and wait for the signal to settle before texting him.
Me: In. They bought it.
His reply comes almost instantly. This lets me know he’s been on pins and needles waiting for me to contact him.
Bear: You good?
Me: As good as I can be. My foster parents are panicking about money. Jeremiah is calm. Too calm if you know what I mean.
Three dots blink. Then stop. Then blink again.
Bear: That tracks. We know he’s focused on the inheritance. Where are you now?
Me: I’m in my old room.
Bear: You alone?
Me: Yes. I’d call you, but they might hear me talking.
Bear: I miss you.
Me: I miss you too.
Three dots appear, disappear, then appear again.
Bear: Rick woke up.
The words stop my breath cold.
