They were sitting on the floor of what looked like a shared playroom—shelves stacked with books, bins overflowing with toys, a massive window overlooking the grounds. Evan, the oldest at thirteen, sat with his back against the wall, arms crossed. Caleb, eleven, perched on the arm of a beanbag chair. Noah, nine, had a tablet in his lap but wasn’t looking at it. And Luke, the youngest, sat cross-legged in the center, his expression unreadable.
I stepped inside and held out the dinosaur.
Luke didn’t move.
I set it on the floor between us and sat down, cross-legged, at eye level with him.
“I’m Nia,” I said. “And I’m not here to replace anyone.”
Evan’s jaw tightened. “That’s what they all say.”
“Then they lied,” I said simply. “I can’t replace your mom. No one can.”
The room went silent.
Noah’s fingers froze over the tablet screen.
Caleb’s eyes flicked toward Evan, uncertain.
Luke stared at me, wide-eyed, like I’d just said something no adult had ever dared to say out loud.
Evan’s voice came out sharp. “You don’t know anything about her.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t. But I know what it’s like to lose someone and have people pretend it didn’t break everything.”
Evan’s hands curled into fists.
Caleb looked away.
Noah’s breathing changed.
Luke picked up the dinosaur and held it against his chest.
I didn’t push. I just sat there, letting the silence settle, letting them decide whether I was telling the truth.
Finally, Luke whispered, “What’s your sister’s name?”
My chest tightened.
I hadn’t mentioned Maya.
“How did you—”
“You keep looking at your phone,” Noah said quietly. “Like you’re waiting for something bad.”
I exhaled slowly.
These kids were sharper than anyone gave them credit for.
“Her name’s Maya,” I said. “She’s eight. And she’s sick.”
Luke’s fingers tightened around the dinosaur.
“Is she going to die?” he asked.
Evan shot him a look, but Luke didn’t flinch.
I met Luke’s eyes and told him the truth.
