Then a family had eventually offered Willa a permanent home. “They didn’t have room for me too,” Callum said. “I was fourteen at the time. They kept asking me what I genuinely thought was best for her.”
“Who told you that?” I asked, feeling anger rising fast inside me.
“Everybody did. They all said Willa deserved real stability.”
“And you agreed to it?”
He laughed bitterly. “I was fourteen years old. They kept asking me what was best for her. So I said yes.”
After that separation, Callum had begun quietly sabotaging his own placements. Not dramatically, exactly. He never once turned violent. He simply learned, over time, how to make people give up on him first. “I’d stop talking entirely,” he explained. “On purpose.”
“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.”
