Chapter 16 - The Child No One Claimed
“Noah’s foster mother needs surgery,” the caseworker explained. “She can’t continue caring for him during her recovery. We’re looking for a stable placement that causes him as little disruption as possible.”
I looked down at the photograph beside my telephone.
The yellow boat was pressed against his chest.
“Is he safe where he is?”
“Yes. This isn’t an emergency removal. We have time to plan carefully.”
Something inside me loosened.
Her name was Miriam Hayes. She spoke without urgency or persuasion, explaining that answering questions about family history did not obligate me to offer a home. If I wanted to be considered, there would be interviews, checks, and visits. Noah’s needs would guide every decision.
“I understand,” I said, although I was only beginning to.
After we hung up, Tobias remained in the doorway.
“You heard?”
“Enough.”
I turned the photograph toward him. He studied it for a long moment.
“He looks very small.”
“He is small.”
Our eyes met, and I understood how easily we had allowed the adults around Noah to make him seem like something larger and more dangerous than a child.
That afternoon, Miriam sent the information she could share. Noah liked pears, disliked loud vacuum cleaners, and slept with one hand curled against his cheek. His foster mother had written that he watched doors whenever someone left a room.
I read that sentence three times.
Later, I drove to the farmhouse alone. Garrett’s old study had become a room for household records. The bedroom across the hall remained empty, its curtains tied back above the garden.
I stood inside it without making plans.
A child deserved more than a room prepared by someone trying to repair her own grief.
When Tobias arrived, I was sitting on the bare floor.
“I don’t know whether I can do this,” I admitted.
“Then we find out before you promise.”
“What if every time I look at him, I remember them?”
Tobias lowered himself beside me.
“You might. At first.”
His honesty hurt, but it gave me something solid to hold.
The next morning, I called Miriam and asked for an introductory meeting with Noah’s foster mother. I also made an appointment with the therapist I had stopped seeing when work became busy.
Neither call felt like a declaration.
They felt like the first careful steps onto a dock after a storm.
At noon, my attorney called about the eastern basin. Investigators had identified the supervisor in Samuel’s photograph.
“He’s willing to speak,” she said. “But he says your mother kept another set of records.”
I closed my eyes.
May you like
“Where?”
“He claims she gave them to someone at the shipyard.”
