I thought about Noah for a long time after I hung up with Adrian.
A seven-year-old boy in a school uniform, sitting in a chair with his arm out, watching a
swab being taken from the inside of his cheek with the composure of someone who had
already made peace with whatever the result was going to say. Going home. Closing his
door. And then, finally, in the only space he had that was entirely his own, crying for an
hour in a way he would not let anyone see.
She had underestimated the children.
She had underestimated all of us.
I was still sitting at my kitchen table with my cold coffee when my phone lit up with Olivia’s
name, and something in my chest loosened slightly, the way it always does when she calls,
because Olivia is the person I trust to tell me exactly what I need to hea
