I stared at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
I’d learned, through my own grief, that small kindnesses could sometimes feel genuinely dangerous. Eventually, though, we began talking seriously about adoption itself.
“You’d really want that?” Callum asked.
“Yes.”
“Permanent?”
“That’s generally how adoption actually works.”
He looked away from me. “What if I mess it up somehow?”
“Then we’d deal together with whatever you messed up.”
“What if you regretted it, eventually?”
“Then I’d simply be an adult, having a feeling. You’d still remain my kid regardless.”
His eyes stayed fixed on the table. “You make everything sound so simple.”
“No. I make commitment sound simple. That’s genuinely different.”
When Callum finally moved into my house, he treated absolutely everything as though he were merely borrowing it temporarily. He made his own bed before breakfast every morning. Washed his plate immediately after eating. Folded towels without ever once being asked to.
The first Saturday, I nearly tripped over a loose porch step. Callum appeared instantly with a screwdriver in hand. “How long has this actually been like this?”
“Couple of years now.”
He stared at me. “You’ve genuinely been walking on this thing?”
“I enjoy a little danger.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
A month later, he called me Mom entirely by accident. “Mom, have you seen my charger anywhere?” We both froze completely. Callum turned bright red. “Kitchen counter,” I said quickly. “Right.” Neither one of us mentioned it out loud. But he kept right on saying it regardless, over and over, in the weeks that followed. By the time the adoption was finally finalized, I’d genuinely stopped waiting for him to eventually become somebody else entirely.
Chapter 2 – What the Meatloaf Couldn’t HideThen, exactly two weeks later, Callum came to dinner and barely touched his own meatloaf. That scared me considerably more than it probably should have. He genuinely loved meatloaf.
“Sweetheart?” I reached across the table and touched his hand gently.
“I’m fine.”
“Terrible lie.”
His fork scraped uselessly against his plate. He was trembling. “And you’ll probably wish you’d never actually adopted me.”
“Callum.”
He pulled away from me, eyes filling with sudden tears. “Mom, I need to tell you something.” My own fork slipped straight out of my fingers. My stomach dropped hard. “Callum, what happened?”
He looked genuinely terrified. Then he whispered, “I have a sister.”
“Your file said you didn’t have any siblings placed alongside you.”
“She’s not actually placed with me.”
Callum explained that the two of them had entered foster care together, years earlier, back when Willa was still quite little. Her name was Willa. She was nine years old now. He’d made her breakfast every morning. Gotten her ready for school. Helped with her homework. Whenever she woke up scared at night, she’d come looking for him specifically.
