“Mostly. Sometimes I just genuinely didn’t feel like talking anymore.” “What else did you do?” “Refuse outings. Stay locked in my room. Say things I already knew would hurt them.” “Why, though?” His chin shook. “Because if I got adopted somewhere else eventually, Willa might genuinely think I’d chosen another family over her.”
Suddenly, those ten previous placements looked completely different to me. Once, when a foster mother had started discussing permanent guardianship with him, he’d packed his bags before she could even finish the sentence. “I wanted to leave first,” he explained. “Because leaving hurts considerably less, when you’re the one who actually decides when it happens.”
Then he said the part that genuinely broke me apart. “I was going to do the exact same thing to you.”
I turned back toward him. “What?”
“When I first moved in, I actually had a plan. Give it a couple months. Then start acting different on purpose.” “But you didn’t.” Tears ran freely down his face now. “I messed up completely.” Despite everything, I very nearly laughed. “Then I started loving you instead,” he said. “How?” “I liked being here with you.” He covered his own face with both hands. “I called you Mom without even meaning to. Then the adoption actually happened, and everybody around me seemed genuinely happy, and all I could think about was that Willa would end up hating me for it.”
I moved around the table and sat down right beside him. “You should have told me sooner.” “I know.” “But you are not going anywhere at all. You’re my son now. Adoption was never some kind of trial period.” His shoulders finally collapsed with relief.
A long silence followed. “There were certain decisions made between the adults involved, at the time.” “The history itself sat buried in older records, but direct contact had become restricted years back, while Willa was still adjusting to her own placement.” “Restricted by whom, exactly?” “Letters were routed through certain channels. Contact was always supposed to be revisited eventually.” “Supposed to be?” “It genuinely wasn’t handled well.”
“Did Callum ever have contact with her?” Another silence. “He sent letters regularly.” “Did Willa ever answer them?” “I don’t actually know.”
Callum did know, though. When I asked him directly, he returned carrying an old shoebox. Inside sat copies of dozens of letters — birthday letters, Christmas letters, letters asking about school. Nearly every single one ended with the exact same sentence. I’m still your brother. “She never once answered a single one,” Callum said quietly.
