“I do know, sweetheart. My dad died when I was twelve. Older than you, but he was still my whole world. And it hurt so bad. Worse than the time I broke my arm. Worse than anything I could imagine. I felt like I was bleeding, like I was dying inside, and no one could see that. They thought I was fine. They thought I could just be sad and then move on.”

A sniffle now. “What did you do?”

“I don’t know. Or maybe I do know, I just don’t want you to copy my example. I went dead inside, really. I just pretended like I was okay, but I wasn’t okay. Not then, and not now. Maybe I never will be, but I don’t want that for you, sweetheart. You aren’t a ward of the state. You have a family. You have a home. You can feel safe again, someday.”

“It’s not a real home,” she says, her voice thick. This is not the child full of anger and resentment. There’s only sadness now. “It’s not a real family.”

“It may not seem like Mr. Rochester cares about you, but he does.”

“He doesn’t.”

“I care about you, too.”

“You don’t either. I heard Beau talk to you on the first day. I’m the reason why you’re getting a paycheck right now. That’s why you’re here. Because of money.”

The accusation draws blood because it’s true. “Yes. I can’t deny that.”

“See? No one cares about me anymore.”

“Do you know the reason why I accepted this job? Why I moved so far away from where I lived? Because I want to go to college and become a social worker. Because I want to help kids, kids like you who’ve gone through something hard. I may have only met you because I took the job, but now that I’m here and I’ve gotten to know you, I do care about you. Only for you.” I swallow hard around the knot in my throat, knowing I might very well get fired after this. “And no matter what happens, even if I have to go away, I will never stop caring about you.”

I know the birthday and favorite food of every kid who was ever a foster child in a home with me. Even the ones who stole lunch money from my backpack, even the ones who got me in trouble to save their own skins. They’re all part of my broken, haunting family.

And now there’s Paige.

And somehow, somehow there’s Mr. Rochester.

She sniffles. “I’m still not going to do the schoolwork. It still doesn’t matter.”

I drop my head back against the rough bark. “I understand.”

“We can go inside though. Can I have a Pop-Tart?”

An uneven laugh escapes me. “Sure, sweetheart.”