Chapter 23Victor
Chapter Twenty-Three
Victor
12 years old
I step out of the social worker's car, and my breath hitches at the sight in front of me. A two-story house with a sprawling manicured lawn, its windows gleaming. The air smells different here—like cut grass despite the cold and something sweet I can't place.
"Go on, Victor. They're waiting for you," Mrs. Lawson nudges, her voice soft but firm.
My feet shuffle up the pathway, heart thudding against my chest, hands clammy. I've been through this enough times to know that "nice" houses don't always mean "nice" families. But as the door swings open, revealing a woman with a warm smile, I allow myself a sliver of hope. She beckons me inside, where everything looks clean and carefully put together. It's nice, a little upscale, and nothing like any home I've been in before.
"Victor, this is Matthew," the woman says, gesturing toward a kid about my age who bounds over with energy I wish I had right now.
"Hey!" Matthew grins, his hand shooting out for a shake.
I take it gingerly.
A man comes out from the kitchen. His hair is dark, just like Matthew's. He must be the dad.
"Why don't you two play while the grown-ups talk," Mrs. Lawson suggests.
"You like hockey?" Matthew asks me.
"Uh..." I mumble, my shyness tangling my tongue. I've never had the chance to try it.
"Come on, I'll show you." He drags me through the house, ignoring my hesitation. We spill out into the backyard, where a pond lies frozen in the winter chill, a makeshift rink set up with battered goals on either end.
"Ever skated before?" he asks, tilting his head as he hands me a pair of skates.
I shake my head, a lump forming in my throat.
"First time for everything, right?" Matthew chuckles and sits down to lace up his own skates. "I'll teach you."
He's patient, showing me how to balance on the blades, how to push off and glide. I fall—a lot—but each time, Matthew's right there, pulling me back up with an easy laugh and words of encouragement .
"See? You're getting it!" His cheeks are flushed from the cold, but his eyes sparkle with excitement. It's contagious.
"Okay, now with the stick," he says after I manage to stay upright for more than a few seconds. He tosses one to me and starts explaining the basics of hockey. I listen intently, forgetting for a moment that this isn't permanent—that I'm just passing through.
"Pass it here!" he calls out, and I do, surprised when the puck actually goes where I want it to.
"Nice shot!" he yells, and for a fraction of a second, I forget to be cautious, forget to hold back. I feel a flicker of something like friendship—warm and unexpected—in the pit of my stomach.
"Thanks," I say, my voice a whisper lost in the crisp air, but Matthew hears it, nods, and flashes a thumbs-up.
"Let's keep playing," he says, and I nod, following him into a game I never knew I wanted to be a part of.
***
The puck flies across the ice, and I'm after it like a hound on a scent. My skates carve into the frozen surface, sending a spray of ice chips behind me. I can hear Matthew's whoops of encouragement as he trails just a step behind, ready for a pass if needed.
People in the stands are cheering for me, and I feel like I'm on top of the world.
I scoop up the puck with my stick, feeling the weight of it, the potential energy of a goal waiting to happen. A quick glance at the goalie, and I know where I need to aim. With a flick of the wrist, I send the puck sailing toward the net—it's a clean shot, swift and sure.
"Goal!" The word bursts from my lips before the puck even hits the back of the net. Our teammates erupt into cheers, slapping their sticks against the ice in applause.
Matthew skates over, his grin wide as the rink itself. "You're a natural, man!"
I can't help but return his smile. This—right here, right now—this feels like something real. Something solid in a life that's mostly been a series of temporary stops.
"Thanks," I say, breathless from the exertion and the exhilaration. "Feels good."
"Feels good? Dude, you look like you were born to play hockey! You won us the game!" He punches my shoulder lightly.
The cheers die down, and we go to shake hands with the other team. Matthew and I are the last to leave the ice, still buzzing from the adrenaline of the game. As I take off my skates, I can't shake the warm glow inside me. It's more than the satisfaction of a good play; it's the sense of belonging somewhere, being part of something.
We make our way to the locker room where the team is celebrating, and then out to the lobby. Matthew's parents are waiting for us with smiles on their faces .
"What a game!" Shaun, Matt's dad, says, patting us both on the shoulder.
"We're so proud of you both!" Nancy, Matt's mom, says. "We're going to celebrate with dinner out!"
I smile as we head out to the car. It feels like I'm a part of this family. In reality, I know I'm not, but I allow myself to imagine what it would be like if I were, just for a dangerous second.
As we pile into the Friendly's restaurant, Matt says he's got to go to the bathroom, and the rest of us sit down. Nancy looks first at her husband and then at me.
"Victor, can we talk for a moment?"
"Sure," I reply, looking between the two of them.
"We've been talking," Shaun begins, his eyes kind. "And we've seen how well you fit in here—with us, with Matthew..."
My heart starts pounding, a mix of hope and fear tangling up inside me. I swallow hard, not daring to assume anything.
"We want you to be more than just our foster son," Nancy says, her voice laced with something that sounds suspiciously like love. "We want to adopt you, make you officially part of our family. What do you think about that?"
For a moment, the world tips on its axis. The word "adopted" hangs in the air like a promise, one I've been too scared to let myself believe could come true.
"Really?" The word comes out as a choked whisper, my blue eyes stinging with unshed tears. "You—you want me?"
"Of course, we do," Shaun says, reaching out to pat my hand. "We love you, Victor. And we want you to be our son, forever."
"Forever" echoes in my mind, a sweet sound I've longed to hear my whole life. I nod, unable to find my voice, unable to do anything but agree to this miracle they're offering me.
"Yes," I finally manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Yes, I'd like that very much."
Their smiles light up the space between us, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I allow myself to bask in the warmth of a family that wants me. Just as I am.
***
The morning sun barely peeks through the curtains when a sharp knock jolts me awake. My heart races as I sit up, scanning the room that's become more familiar each day. Before I can even rub the sleep from my eyes, Mrs. Lawson, the social worker, steps in, her face a mask of practiced neutrality.
"Victor, there's been a change. You need to gather your things," she says briskly.
"What? Why?" I stammer, confusion fogging my brain. "I—I'm supposed to be here. They're adopting me."
"Plans have changed," is all she offers, avoiding my gaze.
Panic claws at my chest. I scramble out of bed, throwing clothes into the duffel bag that never quite got unpacked. The Thompsons' home, with its warm kitchen and laughter around the dinner table, had started to feel like mine. A real family was within my grasp, and now it's slipping away.
"Can I say goodbye to Matthew?" I plead, my voice cracking.
"There's no time. We have to go now."
The house is empty as we walk downstairs. I can't understand what's going on, and Mrs. Lawson isn't telling me anything.
The car ride is a blur. I press my forehead against the cold window, watching as trees and houses whip past, taking me farther from the life I'd barely begun to live.
We pull up to a house much smaller than the Thompsons', with chipped paint and a yard cluttered with toys. Inside, kids swarm like bees, loud and restless. I'm just another face, another name to remember, or forget.
"Victor, this is Tim," Mrs. Lawson introduces me to a boy with sandy hair and a too-big sweater. "He'll show you around."
She leaves to talk to the new foster parents, and I stand there, lost, until Tim grins and nudges me with his elbow.
"Come on, don't look so glum. You'll get used to it."
As we navigate through the chaos, I muster the courage to speak what's burning inside me. "I have to get back. The Thompsons—they were going to adopt me."
Tim's laughter is a punch to the gut. "Adopt you? Man, that's over. Clearly they didn't want you. Look at you, you're practically a teenager. Too old for that fairy tale stuff."
The words sting, cruel and sharp. I want to argue,
to claim he's wrong, but doubt creeps in, heavy and suffocating. Maybe he's right. Maybe I was foolish to ever think someone would want me forever.
"Whatever," I mumble, shoving my hands in my pockets, the ache in my chest growing. "Doesn't matter."
But it does. It matters more than anything.