She finally looks at me, eyes so big they take up half her face. “Are we actually going to live here?”
“That’s the plan.”
She glances back at the house, then at me again, like she can’t decide which one is real.
The car stops. Patricia, our social worker, climbs out first, clipboard in hand, lavender perfume drifting back into the car like always. She says something about gathering our things, but I barely hear her.
I have one backpack. Mary has one backpack and George—her stuffed rabbit that’s missing one eye and has been washed so many times he’s faded from brown to a sad, patchy gray.
She tucks him tight under her arm the way she does when she’s scared.
I take her free hand. She squeezes back hard, like my hand is the only solid thing left in the world.
We walk up the wide stone steps just as the front door swings open.
“You’re finally here!”
“Children,” Patricia starts. “This is Mrs. Capello.”
“Oh, no. None of that. Call me Valeria.”
She’s beautiful. Probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Dark hair swept back from a face that looks like it belongs in magazines, not doorways. Cream dress. Pearls at her throat.
She smiles the second she sees us—warm, bright, immediate—and crouches down so she’s eye-level with Mary.
“You must be Mary,” she says softly, like the name itself is something precious. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Mary goes very still, the way she does when something surprises her completely. Then her grip on my hand loosens, just a little. Her whole body leans forward, almost without meaning to, like a flower turning toward the sun.
The woman straightens and looks at me next.
“Oh… wow.” She reaches out and takes my chin between her fingers. Not rough. Gentle, actually. The way you’d hold something fragile you wanted to see better. She tilts my face up slightly, studying me with dark eyes that feel like they’re looking straight through my skin.
“What a beautiful young boy you are, Nazareth.” She says my name like she already owns it. Like she practiced it in the mirror until it sounded right. “You’re going to be a killer with the ladies one day.”
I don’t say anything. There’s a feeling in my throat I can’t name—not exactly fear, but something close. Like the room is a degree too warm and no one else seems to notice.
Mary looks up at me, eyes shining, already half in love with this woman and this house and everything it promises.
I squeeze her hand tighter.
I don’t know why, but I don’t want her to let go.
“Come.” Valeria ushers us in. “Let’s give you the tour, then after lunch you can spend the entire afternoon by the pool.”
“You have a pool?” Mary’s eyes widen.
“We do.” Valeria leans close, holding her hand by her mouth like she’s sharing a secret. “And it’s a big one, too.”
“Yay! Nazareth, did you hear that? They have a big pool.”
“Yeah.” I smile, feeling that pang of excitement myself.
The tour of the massive house takes an hour. Maybe ten. It feels like twenty.
I expected Patricia to do it—clipboard voice, laminated packet, all the official language. But Valeria dismisses her with a small, gracious nod and takes us herself, walking through the house at a pace slow enough for Mary's legs, pointing things out the way you point out things you love to people you want to share them with.
The library. The sunroom. The kitchen, which is bigger than our house was. The garden door that opens directly onto a stone path and the smell of something green and alive. She has a way of talking that makes everything feel intentional without feeling formal—like she chose every word, but none of them cost her anything.
