Upstairs, I paused outside the guest room, staring at the tightly shut door. I strained to hear something—any sign of movement, a voice—but the silence felt impenetrable. What were they doing in there? Why didn’t Dad want to be with me tonight?

I brushed my teeth mechanically, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers tightly around me. Mom tucked me in with a soft kiss on the forehead and a gentle “Goodnight,” but I didn’t respond. Instead, I turned my back to her and stared at the wall, an empty ache settling deep in my chest.

“Beverly,” she said, her voice a soft whisper that cut through the stillness. I felt her weight on the bed beside me, and I knew she was looking at me, waiting for me to speak, waiting for me to open up. But I didn’t. “Don’t… Don’t be upset, sweetie.” Her hand brushed through my hair, a comforting touch that never failed to calm me. “Your father loves you just the same.”

I didn’t answer immediately. I wasn’t sure how. All I could feel was the pressure building in my chest.

“Why is that boy here?” The bitterness in my voice surprised even me. I hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, but I couldn’t help it. The words spilled out, sharp and resentful.

“That boy has been through a lot,” she replied, her voice measured, careful. “He’s here because he needs a place to stay.”

I could feel the knot in my stomach tighten, my confusion growing with every second. “But why here?” I asked, my mind struggling to make sense of it all. “Why our house?”

She exhaled softly. “Your father has been working on his case for a while now,” she said. “And he’s decided to take him in.”

“Forever?” I blurted out before I could stop myself, the question hanging in the air like an unspoken truth.

Mom was silent for a moment, and I could hear her breathing steady as she searched for the right words. “There are children, Beverly, who don’t have parents to put them to bed. Who don’t have someone to kiss them good night or tell them they’re safe. Who don’t have food to eat. They go to bed hungry, scared, and alone. They don’t have anyone who cares for them. No one looks at them. No one notices their pain.” Her voice faltered, and I could hear the tremor in it. “Do you think that’s right?”

My heart squeezed painfully. “No,” I whispered. “No, Mom.”

“Now you know why he’s here. He’s not just a boy, Beverly. He’s a child who needs a home, who needs the things we take for granted,” she said, then walked out of my room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.