“Who’s that?”
Denise followed my gaze.
When she saw who I was looking at, her expression changed.
“Luke.”
“You should know he’s had a lot of placements.”
“How old is he?”
“Sixteen.”
“Can I meet him?”
She hesitated.
“You should know he’s had a lot of placements.”
“Was he violent?”
“How many?”
“Ten.”
I stared at her.
“Was he violent?”
“No.”
“Did he hurt younger children?”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“Did he hurt younger children?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
Years earlier, after my husband died, Noah’s teachers called him difficult because he stopped talking in class.
“Different things. Luke is…complicated.”
I hated that word.
Years earlier, after my husband died, Noah’s teachers called him complicated because he stopped talking in class.
What they meant was that my grieving eleven-year-old no longer made their jobs easy.
