“With what?”
“Things.”
The word held more caution than vagueness.
I crouched.
“We can talk upstairs if you want.”
He nodded.
I took his hand.
His room was at the end of the corridor.
The door was open.
His shoes lay in the wrong place.
His favorite blanket was hanging off the bed.
I was unexpectedly grateful for the mess.
Evidence that, at least that morning, he had still felt free to leave signs of himself behind.
He sat on the rug.
I sat beside him.
For a while, he arranged three toy cars in a row.
Then he asked:
“Did Grandma have to keep choosing?”
“What do you mean?”
“After you came.”
I thought about the answer.
“No.”
“She couldn’t change?”
“Being my mother wasn’t something she renewed every morning.”
He pushed the blue car forward.
“Because you were already hers.”
“Yes.”
He looked up.
“Like me?”
“Like you.”
Theo considered that.
Then he asked:
“Why does Camilla say it different?”
“What does she say?”
He studied the cars.
“That you brought me into the family.”
“That’s true.”
“And that I should remember.”
I waited.
“Because not everyone gets things like this.”
He waved toward the room.
The shelves.
The bed.
The window overlooking the garden.
I felt anger rise.
I kept it out of my voice.
“You can appreciate your home without being reminded that someone might decide you don’t deserve it.”
Theo looked confused.
“She said being grateful means not making trouble.”
