She climbs down off the stool without breaking eye contact.
“Eight?” she repeats softly.
“Yeah.”
She sets the roller carefully in the tray as if it might shatter.
“I…” She shakes her head. “I didn’t know.”
“Wasn’t exactly on the welcome brochure.”
Her brows knit together. “What happened?”
There it is.
The question most people avoid.
“My mom wasn’t stable,” I say. “In and out of jail. Addiction. Men who shouldn’t have been around kids.”
Her jaw tightens. “Your dad?”
I shrug. “Didn’t stick around long enough to qualify.”
She presses her lips together.
“One night,” I continue, keeping it flat, factual, “things got loud. Neighbor called it in. CPS showed up. That was that.”
She’s staring at me because I just shifted the floor under her.
“That’s… that’s how you ended up?—”
“Yeah.”
“How many houses?”
“Six before I stopped counting.”
Her hand drifts toward my arm, but she hesitates.
“Did you ever go back?” she asks.
“To my mom?”
She nods.
“No.”
She swallows. “Did you want to?”
That one takes a second.
“I wanted her to want me,” I say.
Aurora’s eyes shine a little.
“That’s not the same thing,” she whispers.
“No.”
