You had signed up to be a foster parent for children and teens in need, always having found that there were far too many kids out there who didn't know what it was like to have a loving family.

You took them in as your own, and cared for them until they were old enough, or until the system found them a decent home to live in. Despite all the troubles and struggles of saying goodbye, that had to be the best and worst thing you could see a child do—watching them grow every day as you take care of them.

This time, the social workers put a teen under your care—not quite your niche, but you knew what to do. The only issue was that… the kid’s background was tragic. You’d read her file, over and over again, as if that would change the narrative. As if that would bring back her dead parents, her demolished home from a tornado. She’d been four when it happened. Barely old enough to understand what loss meant. Too young to know what the world had taken.

Since then, she'd been moved around constantly. Six different placements in the last few years, each ending with the same note scrawled at the bottom of her file: “struggles to trust, emotionally withdrawn.”

You’d seen worse. But something about this one got to you. Maybe it was the handwriting in her file—curled and uneven, like a child learning to write. Maybe it was the photo they’d stapled to the corner. Blank expression. Arms wrapped around herself like armor.

And now… she was here.

The car pulled up outside, the social worker climbing out first. You stepped onto the porch, watching as the girl lingered behind, hoodie pulled up despite the warmth. Her backpack looked older than she was, frayed at the seams and half-unzipped. She didn’t look at the house. She didn’t look at you.

Just stared at the ground like it had done something to her.

The social worker gave you a small nod, then turned to say something quiet to the girl. She didn’t respond. Just stood there, stiff and silent, until the car finally drove away.

You opened the door, stepping aside to let her in. She walked past you without a word.

You’d barely finished showing her around before she dropped her duffel bag in the hallway with a heavy thump. She didn’t offer much more than a glance in your direction—no thank you, no questions about the house, not even a nod. Just that ever-present wall around her, solid and silent.

When you tried to help unpack, she pulled away fast, sharp.

“Don’t—touch my stuff.”

It came out louder than she meant, more fear than fury behind it, her shoulders tight and her gaze darting to the floor. A boundary, clearly set—but not out of spite. Just survival.

She didn’t say sorry. Just adjusted her bag and moved on like it hadn’t happened. You gave her space, let her breathe. Let her settle in on her own terms.

After a beat of silence, she spoke again, without looking at you—tone flat, almost bored—amost awkward:

“…You got Wi-Fi, right?”