“Our pleasure,” Mr. Varner answers, his voice deep and steady.
“Please, sit down. I prepared the children’s files for you. We’ll just go through everything one more time before the final signing.”
I can hear them settle on the old squeaky couch as she continues, papers shuffling softly.
“So, Kasien’s file is right here. We need to review his medical notes and his educational recommendations. As you can see in the report from our child psychologist, he shows clear symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder. It’s nothing unmanageable. He follows routines, likes order, and responds very well to structure. He’s a sweet, quiet boy.”
My stomach twists. I don’t understand what it is that I do, but I keep listening anyway.
“Unfortunately, he also shows signs of post-traumatic stress. The exact origin isn’t entirely clear, but let’s just say it’s obvious.” Her voice softens. “In this folder is everything we were able to gather about the parents and their situation in the war zone. The father died years ago on the battlefield, and the mother, well, you can read the file yourselves. Unfortunately, Kasien witnessed it.”
The voices blur for a moment as I squeeze my eyes shut.
Mom.
I force myself to listen again.
“And Natalya,” the old lady’s voice brightens. “She’s a very social girl, playful, energetic. Perhaps a little hyperactive, but in the sweetest way.”
My chest warms. Of course she is.
“She doesn’t remember anything except her brother. The psychologist assessed it as dissociative amnesia with selective memory loss, which is very typical at her age in cases like this.”
I hear the rustle of papers.
“Are those the educational requirements?” Mrs. Varner asks. Her voice is young, but cold.
“Yes. No special requirement for the girl, but for the boy, monthly sessions with a child psychologist are recommended. Depending on how his symptoms develop as he grows older, you may eventually consult a child psychiatrist as well. But truly, he’s very bright. He just needs stability and routine.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Varner says gently.
“He’ll get the best support possible.” Mr. Varner’s deep voice adds something reassuring I can’t quite catch.
Their voices blend for a moment into soft, calm murmurs. Then the chairs move and the couch squeaks—they’re standing up.
I hurry back to our room and quickly sit on the bed next to Natalya just as the door creaks open, and our new parents step inside, smiling at us.
Natalya surprisingly keeps her ass on the bed, not jumping around as usual, but her legs are kicking so wildly she could fly away any second. I take her hand and lace our fingers together as I stand up and lead us toward them, forcing a smile.
I like them. They look so clean and they smell nice. But I’m going to miss that old lady. I hope we’ll have grandparents like her.
Mrs. Varner gets to her knees, spreading her hands, waiting for us to hug her. Natalya jumps in her arms immediately. I’m hesitating for a moment before doing the same.
Her touch feels weird. Her hands are cold but she smells like some fruit. It’s not bad.
Mr. Varner runs his fingers through my hair, ruffling it.
“We couldn’t wait to see you again, kids. Let’s get going, shall we?”
I lift my gaze to him. He’s wearing a black shirt, clean and unwrinkled, together with black pants and a shiny belt. I saw people dressed so nicely only in movies. All the men at home always wore dirty greenish uniforms or some sort of work clothes.
He also smells like cigarettes. I know that smell very well. I stare at him and finally realize my face is like a stone so I quickly force a smile.
They are nice. Natalya is really happy.
We get to the car—it’s huge and black. They sit us in the back, Mrs. Varner fastens our seatbelts and some other clips for Natalya’s seat, because she is still too small for a normal one.
The old lady comes to the car door to say goodbye to me. She tenderly runs the back of her fingers on my cheeks.
