I head to the spare room and pause in the doorway. A desk sits in one corner, and my gaming PC occupies most of the desktop. I flop into my gaming chair and swivel around to scan the room. I've never had a guest to stay in this room. It's my gaming room and my dumping ground.
There's a stack of books which Avery found at Jake's place and military gear piled everywhere. I keep my living space sparse, and the spare room is the dumping ground for everything else.
I run my hand over the windowsill, and there are areas where the paint is cracked from the sun. The white walls have marks on them, and I never bothered to redecorate in here.
I run a hand through my hair, wondering if I'm making a huge mistake. My apartment is for a bachelor, not a small boy.
The image from the photograph pops into my head. This is Jake's son we're talking about. Whatever it takes, I'll do it.
7
ALANA
Kids jostle past me as I wait at the school gate for Kyra. She must be the last one out of her class, because finally I see her, dragging her feet. Her oversized backpack makes her five-year-old frame look even smaller.
I can tell by her pursed lips that something bad has happened today. My heart goes out to the little girl, but I put a smile on for her.
"Hey, chicken, good to see you. You want me to take your bag?"
She hands it over without saying a word.
I put the bag in the trunk of the car and open the back car door for her. She climbs into her booster seat, still not talking. I slide into the front seat and only once I slam the door shut does she speak.
"Can I call you Mummy yet?"
Her small, squeaky voice tugs at my heartstrings, and I turn to face my foster daughter.
"Has something happened?"
Her bottom lip trembles, and she looks out of the window.
It's been two years since Kyra came to live with me. She needed an emergency foster placement, and I offered to take her. The emergency placement became permanent, and as she settled into her new routine, I learned to love the little girl.
I'm going through the process of adopting her. But until the papers are signed, I don't want to get our hopes up. The last thing Kyra needs is to be let down again by promises I'm not sure I can keep.
I let the silence sit in the car, still watching Kyra, waiting to see if she'll open up. Eventually, she turns to me, eyes wet.
"We're going to the museum on a field trip," she tells me.
"Okay," I say, waiting for the rest.
"You need to get your mom or dad's permission. And when the teacher said that--" she looks away, "--Madison said in front of the whole class that I won't be able to go because I don't have a mom or a dad."
Her lip trembles, but no tears fall. Kyra learned too early that tears don't get you anywhere.
My heart breaks for the little girl I already consider my daughter. I silently curse the meanness of kids.
"Well, that's not true," I tell her. "The teacher should've said you need permission from the adult who's caring for you. And I may not be your mummy yet, officially, but Iamthe adult who cares for you, very much. And in my heart, you'll always be my daughter."
Kyra sniffs, and I see the pain slip off her face. I make a mental note to remind the school about the language they use. I'm sure it was just a slip-up by the teacher, but there are so many kids who come from unconventional families. They don't realize how hurtful language can be.
"Should we go home and make cookies?"
She smiles and nods.
"Get your seatbelt on, chicken. Let's get home."
Half an hour later, there's a batch of chocolate cookies in the oven, and Kyra is sitting at the table with a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other and chocolate batter all around her face. The troubles of earlier are forgotten. She's smiling as she chomps on the leftover cookie dough.
