“I used to move faster before my knees became eighty years old.”
A tiny smile appeared on Jace’s face.
At the time, I noticed Josie watching them.
I assumed she was simply listening.
Later, Rebecca suggested we all have dinner together during our next visit.
I asked Josie what she liked to eat.
“Mac and cheese.”
I laughed.
“Of course.”
Then I turned toward Jace.
“What about you?”
He looked genuinely surprised.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Unless you’re planning to survive on whatever Josie leaves behind.”
Jace glanced at his little sister.
Josie was already watching us.
“I eat everything,” she announced proudly. “You won’t get leftovers.”
Everyone laughed.
It felt completely ordinary.
Maybe that was why the moment mattered so much.
A few weeks later, Rebecca called us.
The placement was moving forward.
Soon, we brought both children home.
Josie cried the first night.
And the second.
And again a few nights later.
Sometimes she woke screaming for Jace.
Before Daniel or I could even reach her room, Jace would already be standing beside her bed.
“I’m here,” he would say. “You’re okay.”
He never mentioned that Daniel and I were nearby too.
I noticed.
I tried not to let it hurt.
Then one morning, Josie woke up before Jace.
Instead of going to his room, she wandered into ours.
Without asking, she climbed into the bed between Daniel and me and immediately fell asleep again.
A little while later, Jace appeared in our doorway.
He stopped when he saw her.
For a moment, he just stood there.
Then, instead of calling Josie back to him, he quietly walked away.
Jace was much harder to understand.
He was polite.
Almost too polite.
He never asked for anything.
He ate whatever I cooked.
He cleaned up after himself.
His bedroom was always unnaturally neat.
After about a week, I realized why.
He hadn’t unpacked.
His clothes were still inside two duffel bags.
His books stayed in his backpack.
His shoes were lined up beside his suitcase.
One afternoon, I said,
“You know you’re allowed to use the dresser and closet.”
“Okay.”
But he made no move toward his bags.
I wanted to ask him why.
Something stopped me.
I had a feeling that if I pushed too hard, he would only close himself off even more.
So I stopped mentioning it.
But every few days, I found myself glancing into his room.
The bags never moved.
Meanwhile, little pieces of Jace slowly started appearing throughout the rest of the house.
A basketball beside the back door.
His favorite cereal in the pantry.
His phone charger permanently occupying an outlet in the kitchen.
Everywhere except his bedroom, he was beginning to leave evidence that he lived with us.
His room still looked like somewhere he might leave at any moment.
A month passed.
Josie began calling our house “home.”
Jace stopped calling Daniel and me “sir” and “ma’am.”
Then, one evening at dinner, Daniel made a terrible joke about pasta.
Jace laughed so hard that milk came out of his nose.
Josie screamed with laughter.
I laughed until my stomach hurt.
For a few minutes, no one was being careful.
No one was studying everyone else’s mood.
No one seemed to be waiting for something bad to happen.
Then Jace reached across the table and stole a piece of garlic bread from Daniel’s plate.
Daniel smacked his hand away.
“Get your own.”