The sketchbook tore in half before twelve-year-old Milo could reach it.
Jake smiled.
“Oops.”
Milo stared at the pages scattered across the bedroom floor.
Months of drawings.
Gone.
“You did that on purpose.”
Jake shrugged.
“Prove it.”
Milo dropped to his knees.
A charcoal drawing of a city skyline had been ripped straight through the center.
Another page showed the face of a woman Milo barely remembered.
His mother.
That one was torn too.
“Why?”
Jake leaned against the door.
“Because this isn’t your house.”
Milo stopped moving.
Jake was fourteen.
The biological son of Milo’s foster parents.
In front of adults, he was charming.
He shared snacks.
Helped with homework.
Called Milo “bro.”
Behind closed doors, he reminded Milo of one thing constantly.
Temporary.
Your bed is temporary.
Your room is temporary.
My parents are not your parents.
Milo never told Sarah or David.
He had already lived in four homes in three years.
The rules changed.
The faces changed.
He didn’t want to become “difficult.”
That night Sarah saw the torn sketchbook in the trash.
“What happened?”
Milo’s throat tightened.
“I dropped it.”
She looked at the clean tears.
“All of it?”
He nodded.
Sarah didn’t believe him.
But she didn’t push.
Two days later, Milo’s art teacher called.
A regional competition wanted to display one of his drawings.
Sarah nearly cried with excitement.
Jake smiled at dinner.
“That’s awesome.”
Milo looked at him.
That smile frightened him.
