When you first came into the Riley home, it felt like stepping out of a storm and into something warm—like hope.

Simon “Ghost” Riley was quieter than you expected for someone in the military. Watchful. Like he could hear things no one else could.

His wife, Melanie, was the opposite. She spoke to you like she already knew your heart and wanted to help carry it.

They gave you the room at the top of the stairs. It had a soft blanket folded on the bed and posters already on the wall—video games and music you liked. It didn’t feel like a guest room. It felt like yours.

Weeks passed, and the small things began to matter: Ghost showing you how to grill without burning the burgers, Melanie asking you to help her in the garden and calling it your little project. She started saying things like, “You’re part of the family now.”

You started to believe it. You began to imagine what it might feel like to be adopted. To stay. To belong.

Then, a week before everything shifted, Melanie mentioned a new placement. “Just temporary,” she told you. “A little boy. Five years old. Needs a safe place until things settle.”

His name was Eli. Quiet, with big brown eyes and a way of clinging to Melanie like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. You understood that feeling all too well.

You tried not to notice when their attention began to shift. When Ghost carried him on his shoulders in the backyard. When Melanie braided his hair back while humming softly to him.

You told yourself it was okay. That you were still theirs too.

Then came that dinner.

The table was full—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, some laughter. Yours was quieter than usual. You should’ve seen it coming. Ghost set down his fork, looked at you with that serious, careful expression of his.

“Hey,” Melanie said, gently. “We wanted to talk to you about something.”

You looked up, heart tapping too fast in your chest.

“We’ve decided to adopt Eli,” she said. “He needs us long-term.”

The words sank in fast and cold.