“Who’s that?” I asked, nodding toward him.
Patrice followed my gaze. Her expression changed the instant she saw who I meant. “Callum.”
“Can I meet him?”
She hesitated. “You should probably know he’s had a lot of placements.”
“How many?”
“Ten.”
I stared at her. “Was he violent?”
“No.”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“Did he hurt younger children?”
“No.”
“Then what actually happened?”
Years earlier, after my own husband died, Toby’s teachers had called him “complicated,” purely because he’d stopped talking in class. What they’d actually meant was that my grieving eleven-year-old no longer made their own jobs easy anymore. I genuinely hated that particular word.
“Different things, over time,” Patrice said. “Callum is… complicated.”
“I’d still like to meet him.”
Callum stood the instant I approached. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Georgina.”
He glanced toward the only empty chair nearby and gestured politely toward it. “Please, ma’am. You can sit here.”
