1. ABBY
I didn’t cry when the judge said “fifteen years.”
Didn’t flinch when they took my dad’s watch—his favorite one, the one he never let me touch, even though the leather strap was cracked and the face had a chip in it. I didn’t cry when the officer told me I wasn’t allowed to hug him goodbye. I just stood there with my hands curled into fists, teeth locked, like if I let go of anything, I’d fall apart on the courtroom floor.
And then I waited. For what came next. For someone to tell me where to go, what to do, how to live without the only person who ever called me “kiddo” like it meant something.
That someone turned out to be a woman named Margaret. She wore cat-shaped earrings and red lipstick that bled into the corners of her mouth. She talked in this overly soft voice like she thought I might snap in half if she raised the volume. And she carried a clipboard around like it could shield her from my silence.
After that day, I started bouncing.
Four homes in six months.
Each one worse than the last. One had mold in the shower and locks on the fridge. Another smelled like wet laundry and cheap cologne. At the third one, I wasn’t allowed to close my bedroom door—like trust was something I hadn’t earned. The fourth had three other foster kids and no heat. I wore two hoodies to sleep that winter and tried not to flinch every time the dad looked at me too long.
I learned to pack light.
I learned to keep my head down.
And I learned that being seventeen makes you unwanted. Too old to mold into someone else’s kid, too close to leaving to bother investing in. No one wants a teenager. Especially not one with a record of “difficulty adjusting.”
So when Margaret called last week and said she’d “pulled some strings,” I didn’t ask what that meant. Just nodded along while she told me about a “real family, good people, stable situation.” All the words she used before.
This time, though, she seemed more serious. Like maybe she meant it. Or maybe she just finally felt bad for me.
We’re headed to a place called Aquidneck Island. It already sounds fake.
As we drive, the landscape changes. The neighborhoods open up. There are wide sidewalks and trimmed lawns, actual mailboxes and fences that weren’t spray-painted or dented. The kind of place where kids ride bikes without helmets and parents drink wine on porches. I watch a little girl in a tutu chase her golden retriever down the sidewalk and feel like I’ve crossed into another planet.
The further we get from Providence, the harder it is to breathe. Like the air doesn’t know what to do with me.
Margaret taps her nails against the steering wheel, keeping time with the hum of the car. “They’re good people, Abigail,” she says again. “I think you’ll like them.”
I don’t respond. The name Abigail doesn’t sound right in her mouth. Too formal, too distant. My dad always called me Abs, or Abby. He only used Abigail when I was in trouble.
I nod once, even though I don’t mean it. I’ve given all I have to give.
What do you say when your entire life’s been packed into a beat-up suitcase you didn’t even pick, and now you’re on your way to a house full of strangers who have no idea what they’re letting in?
The car slows in front of a two-story home with pale blue siding and white trim. There’s a porch swing that moves gently in the breeze, like it’s inviting me in. The lawn is green—actually green—and full of wildflowers in organized rows. The driveway is lined with terra cotta pots and bright bursts of color. Lavender. Hydrangeas. Peonies.
It’s… beautiful.
It looks like it belongs in a lifestyle magazine. Or a dream I stopped letting myself have.
Tall trees surround the property, giving it this cozy, private feeling, but the sun still hits it perfectly—like even the light wants to make this place feel warm.
Margaret parks the car but doesn’t move right away.
“Ready?” she asks.
I want to laugh. Instead I say, “Not even close.”
She squeezes my shoulder before getting out. I follow slowly, hands clenched on the strap of my bag like it might float me back to something familiar.
As I look up, a woman steps out onto the porch. She has short blonde hair that bounces when she moves, and she’s wearing a long, flowy dress with pink flowers that match the ones growing out front. There’s something about her that reminds me of sunshine, in the kind of way that feels dangerous. People like her always seem soft until they stop being kind.
A man appears beside her, tall and tan with soft eyes and a hand resting protectively on her shoulder. Their smiles match. Too genuine to be fake, too unfamiliar to trust.
I shift my weight as Margaret and I make our way up the path.
“Abigail, right?” the woman asks, stepping forward with her hand extended. “I’m Julia. We’re so glad you’re here.”
I nod, tightening my grip on my bag. “Hi.”
Her voice is calm, practiced. The kind of calm that makes people think you’re safe just because you sound like it.
“This is my husband, Lewis,” she continues. He offers a small wave and an easy smile. “Come on in. You must be exhausted.”
I follow them up the steps, pausing in the doorway.
Inside smells like cinnamon and clean laundry. There are books stacked on a side table and a golden retriever lying across the entryway floor, tail thumping as we enter. Family photos line the hallway—real ones. Summer trips, snow days, messy birthday cakes.
It hits me all at once—how much I don’t belong here.
“This is Benny. He’s harmless and super nice,” Julia says, her voice full of affection as she kneels beside the golden retriever and gives his head a few gentle pats.
The dog wags his tail, tongue hanging out like he’s smiling at me. I stand stiffly in the entryway, not quite ready to let my body relax, even with a floppy dog trying to charm me.
“He’s a sucker for belly rubs,” she adds with a grin, standing back up. “Come on, let’s head to the kitchen. I’ll show you around.”
As we pass through the hallway, Lewis carries my suitcase upstairs like it weighs nothing, already chatting about something I can’t quite hear. Julia gestures for me to follow her, and we step into a bright, open kitchen that looks like it was lifted straight out of a magazine.
The counters are spotless, the cabinets white with brass handles, and there’s a big island in the center, complete with a bowl of fresh lemons, a flickering candle, and—blueberry muffins.
Blueberry muffins. My favorite.
The smell hits me before I even realize what I’m seeing—warm, sugary, with just a hint of lemon zest. The kind of smell that makes people feel at home. The kind of smell that never really belonged to me.
Before I can comment, two boys barrel through the room, one of them nearly clipping my shoulder as they bolt past, both of them shouting and laughing like they’ve got no idea what silence feels like.
“Boys!” Julia calls out, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “Be careful!”
The screen door bangs behind them as they disappear into the backyard.
“Those are David and Daniel,” she says, shaking her head with a smile. “Our boys. They’re probably fighting about a video game again. We adopted them when they were eight. Feels like just yesterday.”
She gestures toward the barstool at the island. I sit, slowly, hands in my lap like I’m in a waiting room.
“They seem… happy,” I say quietly.
“They are,” she says, pulling out a stool for herself. “They’re loud, messy, dramatic—and absolutely wonderful.”
I nod, unsure what to do with the warmth in her voice. It’s not fake. I can tell. But that just makes it harder.
I glance around the room, trying to absorb all the details. Every surface is organized. There’s a whiteboard calendar on the wall filled with color-coded notes, like family movie night and Emmett’s soccer practice. There’s a stack of mail next to a vase of tulips, and even the dishtowels are folded.
This isn’t a house. It’s a life. A real one.
And I’m about to become the new piece that doesn’t quite fit.
“It’s just the four of you?” I find myself asking.
Julia’s smile widens, like she was waiting for me to open up just a little. “Oh no. It’s a full house.”
Of course it is.
“We’ve got two more girls—Penelope and Rachel. Penelope’s fifteen, and Rachel’s only ten. Then there’s Lewis’s nephews, Beckham and Emmett, who’ve been staying with us for a while now.”
I blink. “Wow. Full house it is.”
My voice sounds thin, flat. I try to picture all those names, all those faces, living under one roof. All those dynamics. Noise. Opinions. Emotions.
It sounds like too much. Too many people. Too many rooms already filled.
So why take me?
They don’t need another mouth to feed. Another person to worry about. Another kid with baggage and walls and history she doesn’t want to explain.
Julia watches me, her expression thoughtful. I can feel the question rising in my throat, but before I can ask it—why me?—she speaks.
“Abigail—”
“Abby,” I interrupt, licking my lips. “You can call me Abby.”
Her face softens even more. “Abby,” she repeats gently. “We want you to feel comfortable here. Whatever you need, we’ll help you with. You are more than welcome here.”
And for a second—I believe her.
There’s something steady in her voice. Something rooted and real. It doesn’t feel like a sales pitch or a formality. It feels like she means it.
I nod, barely. “Thank you, Mrs. Lawson.”
She lets out a warm laugh. “Please. Call me Julia. And feel free to call Lewis by his first name too. No need for formality here.”
Then, to my surprise, she reaches out and gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. It’s gentle. Not pushy. Just… reassuring.
“Now let me show you your room.”
We head upstairs, and she talks as we walk—about schedules, where the laundry is, the chaos of getting everyone ready in the mornings. I only half-listen. My mind is stuck on the way sunlight pours through the windows, casting soft shadows on the hardwood floors. It’s the kind of light that belongs to safety. To homes that don’t have locks on the fridge or yelling behind closed doors.
We pass several doors. Some are slightly open. I catch a glimpse of a messy bedroom, a half-done puzzle on the floor, posters peeling from the walls. Real lives. Real people. Then we reach the end of the hall.
“This one’s yours,” Julia says, pushing the door open.
The room is small, but cozy. The walls are painted a pale yellow, like faded sunshine. There’s a twin bed with a soft yellow blanket, a white desk pushed up against the window, and string lights tacked along the ceiling like a constellation. A tiny potted plant sits on the nightstand. The kind with round green leaves that look too perfect to be real.
They tried. I can see that. The effort is in the details.
“If there’s anything you want to change or move around, just let me know,” Julia says, pausing in the doorway. “You have your own bathroom through that door.” She points to the left. “Dinner’s at six, so take your time. Get freshened up. And if you get lost on your way down, Beckham’s room is right next door. He can help you.”
I nod again, unsure why I’m suddenly nervous. Maybe it’s the way she says his name—like he’s already a part of the rhythm of this house.
Julia smiles one last time, soft and unguarded. “We’re glad you’re here, Abby.”
Then the door clicks shut behind her, and I’m alone.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands pressed into the blanket. Everything is too quiet. Too clean. Too calm. Like the walls are holding their breath, waiting to see if I’ll unravel.
I glance at the little plant on the nightstand. It looks like it belongs here.
I don’t.
This is someone else’s life. Someone else’s house. Someone else’s window with soft light and yellow walls and muffins waiting in the kitchen.
And yet, here I am.
