Chapter 15
Theo moved into my house after six weeks.
His choice.
Before that, he slept above the clinic.
Smaller rooms.
Closer to Clara.
Familiar.
Then one evening he asked:
“Your house got recycling?”
I almost laughed.
“Yes.”
“Can I see?”
That became the visit.
Not emotional reunion.
Recycling bins.
Kitchen.
Garden.
His room.
I did not call it his room.
I said:
“This room is available.”
He walked inside.
Bed.
Desk.
Shelves.
Too much.
He touched nothing.
Then saw an old photograph on the dresser.
Me holding him as a toddler.
His face changed.
“That me?”
“Yes.”
“You kept?”
“Yes.”
“All five years?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
Then the photograph.
“Can stay here tonight?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
First night, he slept on the floor beside the bed.
I said nothing.
Second night, on top of the blanket.
Third, under it.
Progress measured in inches.
One morning I found the old plastic grocery bag folded inside the bedside drawer.
Not thrown away.
Kept.
I understood.
The bag had carried everything he could control.
Coins.
Food.
Bottles.
Survival.
I would never throw it out.
One day he might.
His choice.
May you like
That became the central rule of our new life.
Choice returned where adults had stolen it.
