That evening, as we washed dishes together, I spoke carefully.
“There is something I want you to know,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Nothing is changing right now. But if you ever want to stay here for good, you can. You do not have to decide today. You do not have to say anything at all.”
Aaron stood very still. Then he turned the faucet off and looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time since he arrived.
He nodded once.
The hearing was scheduled for early spring. The courthouse smelled faintly of old paper and floor cleaner, and the judge spoke gently, explaining each step without pressure. Aaron sat beside me, his hands folded tightly in his lap, his foot bouncing with contained energy.
“You do not have to speak,” the judge said kindly. “You can answer any way you like.”
The room waited. Aaron swallowed. His fingers tightened, then relaxed. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but steady, as if he had been practicing the sound of it somewhere deep inside.
“I want to say something,” he said.
Every breath in the room seemed to pause.