Over time, he sat closer. Waited by the door. Handed me my scarf if I forgot it. When I got sick one winter, I woke to water and a note beside the bed.
“For when you wake up.”
That was when I realized he watched over me, too.
Years passed. The house warmed. Evan hummed while doing chores. Once, when I sang terribly, he smiled. That smile told me everything.
People still asked.
“He still doesn’t talk?”
“Isn’t he too old?”
“Is something wrong with him?”
“He’ll speak when he’s ready,” I always said. “He just needs to stay.”
And he did.
When he was nearly fourteen, taller than me now, I filled out the adoption forms. I didn’t ask him outright.
“If you want this, just nod,” I said. “You don’t have to say anything.”
He nodded once.
The morning of the hearing, his hands wouldn’t stop folding the napkin.
“You’re not being sent back,” I told him. “Nothing about today changes us.”
The courtroom was bright and cold. Judge Calder sat at the bench, papers stacked high. Clara sat beside us.
“Evan,” the judge said gently, “you don’t have to speak. You can nod or shake your head. Do you understand?”
Evan nodded.
“Do you want Maren to adopt you? Do you want her to be your legal mother?”
He froze.