“Are you old?”
The birthmark covered most of the left side of her face, dark and obvious, but her eyes were serious and watchful, like she’d learned to read adults before trusting them.
I knelt beside her. “Hi, Lily. I’m Margaret.”
She glanced at the social worker, then back at me. “Hi,” she whispered.
Thomas squeezed into a tiny chair across from her. “I’m Thomas.”
She studied him and asked, “Are you old?”
She answered questions politely but didn’t offer much.
He smiled. “Older than you.”
“Will you die soon?” she asked, completely serious.
My stomach dropped. Thomas didn’t flinch. “Not if I can help it,” he said. “I plan to be a problem for a long time.”
A small smile slipped out before she caught it. Then she went back to coloring.
She answered questions politely but didn’t offer much. She kept looking at the door, like she was timing how long we’d stay.
The paperwork took months.
In the car afterward, I said, “I want her.”
Thomas nodded. “Me too.”
The paperwork took months.
The day it became official, Lily walked out with a backpack and a worn stuffed rabbit. She held the rabbit by the ear like it might vanish if she gripped it wrong.
When we pulled into our driveway, she asked, “Is this really my house now?”
“People stare because they’re rude.”
“Yes,” I told her.
“For how long?”
Thomas turned slightly in his seat. “For always. We’re your parents.”
She looked between us. “Even if people stare at me?”
“People stare because they’re rude,” I said. “Not because you’re wrong. Your face doesn’t embarrass us. Not ever.”
She nodded once, like she was filing it away for later, when she’d test whether we meant it.
Waiting for the moment we’d change our minds.
The first week, she asked permission for everything. Can I sit here? Can I drink water? Can I use the bathroom? Can I turn on the light? It was like she was trying to be small enough to keep.
On day three I sat her down. “This is your home,” I told her. “You don’t have to ask to exist.”
Her eyes filled. “What if I do something bad?” she whispered. “Will you send me back?”
“No,” I said. “You might get in trouble. You might lose TV. But you won’t be sent back. You’re ours.”
She nodded, but she watched us for weeks, waiting for the moment we’d change our minds.
“You are not a monster.”
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