I stared at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
I’d learned, through my own grief, that small kindnesses could sometimes feel genuinely dangerous. Eventually, though, we began talking seriously about adoption itself.
“You’d really want that?” Callum asked.
“Yes.”
“Permanent?”
“That’s generally how adoption actually works.”
He looked away from me. “What if I mess it up somehow?”
“Then we’d deal together with whatever you messed up.”
“What if you regretted it, eventually?”
“Then I’d simply be an adult, having a feeling. You’d still remain my kid regardless.”
His eyes stayed fixed on the table. “You make everything sound so simple.”
“No. I make commitment sound simple. That’s genuinely different.”
When Callum finally moved into my house, he treated absolutely everything as though he were merely borrowing it temporarily. He made his own bed before breakfast every morning. Washed his plate immediately after eating. Folded towels without ever once being asked to.
