Chapter 7
Noah did not become my son overnight.
He already was my son.
But he did not feel like mine.
Not yet.
He called me Charlotte.
He called Oliver “you.”
He slept with shoes beside the bed.
He ate fast.
He flinched when doors closed.
He asked three times a day if police were coming to move him.
“No,” I said every time.
Sometimes he believed me for five minutes.
Sometimes less.
Oliver tried too hard at first.
He offered clothes.
Games.
Half his room.
Noah snapped, “I don’t want your rich boy pity.”
Oliver went pale.
I stepped in.
“Noah.”
But Oliver raised a hand.
“It’s okay.”
Then he looked at Noah and said, “I don’t pity you. I’m jealous.”
Noah stared.
“Of what?”
“You got to know you had a brother. I didn’t.”
That stopped him.
Noah’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Then he whispered, “I wasn’t sure you were real.”
Oliver nodded.
“Me neither.”
That was the first night they talked past midnight.
Not about feelings.
About dinosaurs, subway rats, video games, and which pizza was best.
I sat outside the door and listened.
May you like
For once, I did not cry.
I smiled.
