“When you were in high school,” I say, “you went to a foster home for a few months.”
Something in Juniper’s eyes sharpens; alertness enters her frame. “Yes,” she says without inflection. “That’s correct.”
I rip the Band-aid off. “I was the one who reported your mother to CPS.”
There are different kinds of silences. Some are warm. Some are cold. Some are heavy, and some feel like they couldblow away in the breeze.
The silence that falls over the room now is a death silence—cold and motionless and heavy. Another dead body, one of my own making this time, lying in the space between Juniper and I.
“You—reported her?” Juniper’s words are hollow, her eyes far away. We’re both sitting on the couch, and she’s close enough that I could reach out and touch her, but I don’t. Her hands are white-knuckled as she clutches the tub of guacamole to her chest; the bag of chips crinkles loudly as her grip tightens there too.
“Yes,” I say. “I reported her.” I swallow past the impossible knot in my throat. “I was worried about you. That’s all I told them. That I was concerned.”
Andthatis the other reason I didn’t want to live with Juniper. That is the reason I still feel guilty sometimes, especially when she talks about her time in foster care. Because I uprooted her life and sent her into the system, and she never even knew. I thought I was doing the right thing at the time, but I’ve wondered ever since.
Juniper inhales shakily, holding it for a second as though she’s about to speak. But she releases her breath instead, her eyes turning glassy as she turns her gaze on me.
She scoots closer, shuffling toward me on the couch. She leans down and sets her chips and guacamole on the floor.
I tense, preparing myself.
But I’m not ready for the soft touch of her hand on my thigh. I’m not ready for the arm she threads around my torso or the way she buries her face in my shoulder.
I’m not ready for the two words she whispers: “Thank you.”
I sit for a moment, stunned, before I’m able to react. I wrap my arms around her and pull her onto my lap, where she folds perfectly into me—my origami heart.
I don’t want to ruin the moment by asking her what the heck is going on right now, but…
“What the heck is going on right now?”
She gives a watery laugh, a puff of breath I feel just above the collar of my sweater.
“What did you expect?” she says.
“I don’t know,” I say, still feeling dazed. “I wasn’t sure.”
“My foster parents were really, really wonderful.” The words are quiet but tinged with unmistakable fondness. “I know a lot of kids don’t have that experience. But I did. I was never hungry, the house was warm, no one was drunk. My caseworker was great too—Mr. V. I still send him a letter every Christmas.”
I swallow, feeling the softness of her hair against my face. “Did you miss your mom?”
She gives a humorless little laugh. “Horribly.” She exhales a shaky breath. “Istillmiss her. Isn’t that crazy? But she’s my mom.”
“You can borrow my mom if you want,” I say, reaching up and stroking her hair. “It won’t be the same, of course. But she’s pretty great, and she has love to spare.” I pause, then say, “So…to clarify. You’re not upset?”
“That you reported my mom?”
I nod wordlessly.
“I’m shocked,” she admits. “And it will take a little time for me to wrap my head around it.” Her eyes dart to me and then away again. “And I can’t promise that I won’t be upset at some future date.”
“That’s absolutely fair,” I say quickly. “I would understand completely.”
She nods. “But right now…” She gives me a little shrug and goes on, “I’m not angry.”
“Wow,” I say, leaning back. “That wasso…anticlimactic.”
She laughs. “Sorry. Do you want me to pretend to be more upset?”
