“I do not know.”
“You kept telling me I was temporary.”
“I said I do not know!” Jake shouted.
David stepped between them, but Milo was no longer frightened by the volume. Something else had taken its place. He had spent months believing Jake’s cruelty meant the entire house secretly agreed with him. Now he understood that Jake had been acting from his own fear, and that did not make the cruelty smaller. It made it belong to Jake.
Sarah pointed toward the stairs. “Go to your room.”
Jake laughed bitterly. “Of course. Now I am the problem and he is perfect.”
“No one said Milo is perfect. We are talking about what you did. You tore his work, stole his competition drawing, and spent months telling him he did not belong here. That is not jealousy. That is harm.”
Jake’s face reddened. “You wanted him more than me.”
David went still.
Sarah whispered, “Is that what you think?”
Jake looked trapped by his own sentence. He shoved his hands into his sweatshirt pockets. “Everything became about him. Caseworkers. Meetings. Being quiet because he had a bad day. Letting him pick dinner because he was new. Telling me to be patient. Then I heard you talking about paperwork and I thought maybe when he left things would go back to normal.”
Milo’s stomach twisted. He had not known that his arrival had changed Jake’s life in ways Jake hated. But he also knew what it was like to feel displaced, and he refused to let that understanding turn into an excuse.
Sarah said the same thing. “You were allowed to be angry. You were allowed to be scared. You were never allowed to make Milo afraid in his own room.”
Jake’s eyes filled, but he blinked hard.
David pointed upstairs. “Room. We will talk when everyone is calmer. And your phone stays with me.”
For once, Jake did not argue.
When he was gone, the house became painfully quiet. Milo looked at the torn pages on the floor. He felt foolish that adoption had not instantly fixed anything. His drawing was still destroyed. The woman’s face—his mother’s face—was still ripped down the middle. The competition piece was still missing except for one corner.
Sarah knelt beside the pages. “Can I help pick these up?”
Milo hesitated, then nodded.
They gathered every piece. David found a clean portfolio. Sarah did not tape anything without asking. The three of them worked in silence until the floor was clear.
At the bottom of the pile, Milo found the torn portrait of his mother. He held both halves together.
“I do not remember her voice anymore,” he said.
Sarah sat back on her heels. “That must hurt.”
“I remember stupid things. Her green coat. The way she cut apples too thin. But I cannot remember what she sounded like.”
David sat on the edge of the bed. “Those are not stupid things.”
Milo looked down. “If you adopt me, am I supposed to stop drawing her?”
Sarah’s answer came immediately. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Milo, loving us does not require you to erase anyone who came before us.”
He studied her face. It was the first time anyone had explained permanency without asking him to pretend his past was temporary too.
