Chapter 4 - THE BOX OF RETURNED LETTERS
I do not open the door at first.
I simply stand there with one hand on the lock and stare through the glass.
Emma stares back.
Fifteen years compress into the width of a front door.
Behind me, Liam whispers, “Is that your sister?”
I nod.
He looks at Emma through the window.
Then he looks at me.
“Why aren’t you opening it?”
Because I am terrified that once I do, she will become real enough to lose again.
I unlock the door.
Emma steps inside.
For a second, neither of us moves.
She has our mother’s eyes.
I had forgotten that until now.
She puts the box on the floor.
“You got tall.”
It is such a ridiculous first sentence that I laugh.
She starts crying.
Then I am crying too.
We do not hug gracefully.
We collide.
Her forehead hits my chin.
My shoulder catches the edge of the door.
Neither of us cares.
She holds on with both arms.
I feel the same small shoulder blades I used to pull against my chest in a courthouse hallway, except now they belong to a grown woman in blue hospital scrubs.
“I looked for you.”
The sentence breaks inside me.
“I looked for you too.”
“I wrote every month.”
“So did I.”
“They told me you stopped.”
“They told me you moved.”
“They said you didn’t want contact.”
“They said your new family requested privacy.”
We pull apart just enough to look at each other.
The same realization reaches both of us.
Someone lied.
Not once.
Repeatedly.
For years.
Emma wipes her face.
Then she notices Liam.
He is standing halfway behind the stair post.
She crouches.
“Hi.”
He says nothing.
“I’m Emma.”
He looks at me.
“She’s my sister.”
“All the way?”
The question nearly destroys her.
“All the way.”
Liam thinks about that.
“Did you get put in another car?”
Emma closes her eyes for a fraction of a second.
“Yes.”
“Did he find you?”
She looks at me.
“No.”
I flinch.
Then she adds, “Not because he didn’t try.”
Liam accepts the correction with a solemn nod.
He goes back upstairs.
Emma watches him leave.
“He is you.”
“I know.”
“That should scare you.”
“It does.”
She looks around the room at toys, sippy cups, folded blankets, and a baby gate I installed crooked and then reinstalled correctly.
“Five?”
“Five.”
“You always did overcorrect.”
I almost laugh again.
Then I remember the box.
“What is in there?”
She looks down.
“Proof that someone decided we were easier to manage apart.”
We sit at the kitchen table.
She opens the box.
Inside are envelopes.
Dozens of them.
Some have my handwriting at fourteen.
Some have my handwriting at sixteen.
Some have my handwriting at eighteen, when I had stopped writing like a child and started writing like someone trying not to sound desperate.
Every envelope is unopened.
Every one carries an internal department routing label.
Some are stamped RETURN TO CASE UNIT.
Others say CONTACT RESTRICTED.
I pick up one addressed to Emma’s foster home in Cedar Rapids.
“I had this address from Daniel.”
Emma looks at me.
“You found Daniel?”
“For one afternoon.”
Her face changes.
“When?”
“I was nineteen.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He did not know where you were.”
She stares at the letters.
“Did he hate you?”
The question is too precise.
“He did then.”
“For the chair?”
I look up sharply.
“You knew?”
“Ray Bowers told everyone you were dangerous.”
“I was thirteen.”
“I know.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I also know Daniel spent two years believing you got him removed on purpose.”
I look down at the table.
“Then the system did a very good job.”
Emma reaches for another envelope.
“This one came with a note.”
She hands me a photocopied case memo.
The text is old and faint.
I read it twice.
SIBLING CONTACT DEFERRED DUE TO PLACEMENT STABILITY CONCERNS.
Below that is a signature.
R. LENNOX, REGIONAL PLACEMENT SUPERVISOR.
The name means nothing to me.
Emma taps another memo.
“There are twelve of these.”
“Who is R. Lennox?”
“Retired now.”
“How do you know?”
“I searched the name after Rachel called.”
Emma’s eyes harden.
“She spent twenty-eight years in child services.”
I think about the sealed file accessed last night.
“Dana said someone used an administrator credential.”
Emma nods slowly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
She takes out her phone.
“I got a call two days ago.”
“From who?”
“Blocked number.”
“What did they say?”
Emma looks toward the stairs.
Then she lowers her voice.
“They asked whether I had been contacted by my brother.”
My skin goes cold.
“What did you say?”
“I asked who was calling.”
“And?”
“They hung up.”
“Why didn’t you tell Rachel?”
“She called me about an hour ago.”
I stand.
“This is connected.”
“Maybe.”
“Someone accessed my file and yours.”
“I know.”
“They called you before we found you.”
“I know.”
“They leaked my record to the state complaint line.”
“You do not know that.”
The calmness in her voice irritates me because it sounds exactly like the way I speak when I am afraid.
“Someone is trying to stop this placement.”
Emma studies me.
“Or someone is trying to stop you from looking backward.”
I stop.
“What does that mean?”
She turns the box around.
Taped to the inside flap is an inventory sheet from the department archive.
One line is highlighted.
CARTER SIBLING GROUP — CONTACT REVIEW MATERIALS — 1 OF 2.
I stare at it.
“Where is box two?”
Emma shakes her head.
“I never got it.”
At 10:30 the next morning, Dana arrives with the court-appointed guardian ad litem.
Her name is Miriam Shaw.
She is in her early sixties, has silver hair, a navy coat, and the unsettling habit of waiting two seconds longer than normal before responding to anything.
She greets the children first.
Not me.
That earns my respect immediately.
She sits on the floor with Noah and asks about his dinosaurs.
She lets Grace show her how the refrigerator magnets work.
She listens while Sophie explains that Ben does not like peas but eats lint.
Then she asks Liam if he wants to speak privately.
He looks at me.
“You can.”
“Do I have to?”
“No.”
Miriam says, “You can say no to me.”
Liam thinks.
“Can I say no to a judge?”
Miriam’s mouth twitches.
“You can tell a judge what you think.”
“Even if it’s no?”
“Yes.”
He follows her into the dining room.
Dana begins the home assessment.
Emma stays because she refuses to leave after fifteen years and because the children have already decided she is interesting.
Within an hour, Sophie has asked if Emma gives shots.
Noah has asked if blood is blue inside the body.
Grace has climbed into her lap without permission.
Ben has chewed on the corner of her hospital badge.
Watching her with them does something painful and hopeful inside me.
Then Dana asks the question that brings reality back.
“Evan, what is your childcare plan when you return to work Monday?”
I point toward a folder.
“I contacted three licensed centers.”
“Do any have five openings?”
“No.”
“Do any have openings in all four age groups?”
“No.”
“Then what is the plan?”
“I am taking unpaid leave.”
“How long can you afford that?”
I hesitate.
Dana notices.
“How long?”
“Maybe three weeks.”
“And after that?”
“I figure it out.”
She writes something.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That looked like something.”
“It was the phrase ‘no sustainable childcare plan.’”
The words sting.
Emma speaks from the couch.
“I work three twelve-hour shifts.”
Dana looks at her.
“No.”
Emma blinks.
“I did not ask yet.”
“I know where this is going.”
She points between us.
“Do not build an emergency placement around a sibling you reunited with last night.”
Emma’s face hardens.
“I am a licensed pediatric nurse.”
“And a stranger to these children.”
“So is he.”
The room goes quiet.
Dana does not back down.
“Exactly.”
The word hurts because it is true.
Miriam returns with Liam.
She has heard enough to understand the argument.
“Ms. Ortiz, what support would make the childcare plan sustainable?”
Dana lists requirements.
Licensed daytime care.
Backup transportation.
Emergency caregiver screening.
Respite support.
Income stability.
Medical appointment flexibility.
Each item feels like another stair in a building I did not know I was expected to climb in three days.
Miriam looks at me.
“Can you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
Again, everyone seems surprised when I admit it.
“I can try.”
Miriam’s long pause arrives.
“Trying is not a plan.”
“I know.”
“Then make one.”
For the rest of the afternoon, I make calls.
A church daycare has two openings but cannot take Ben.
A home provider can take Grace and Ben but not school-age children.
A preschool has a waitlist of thirty-one names.
My employer, Hudson Custom Cabinets, tells me I can use five days of family emergency leave but not three weeks.
My supervisor says the company is small and cannot hold my position indefinitely.
I understand.
Understanding does not make the problem smaller.
At six, Rachel arrives with takeout and bad news.
“Hale wants a formal review Monday morning.”
“He already had one.”
“He wants the placement terminated when the seventy-two hours expire.”
“Based on what now?”
“Financial instability, inadequate childcare plan, unresolved psychological evaluation, and lack of foster certification.”
Emma mutters something under her breath.
Rachel hears it.
“Do not insult the state attorney in front of my client.”
“I am his sister.”
“Then insult him privately like family.”
For the first time, Emma smiles.
Rachel sets down another file.
“There is more.”
I hate those words now.
“What?”
“The department located a relative.”
Every muscle in my body tightens.
“Whose?”
“The children’s.”
Liam is in the hallway.
I did not hear him approach.
His face changes instantly.
“Relative means family.”
Rachel looks at him.
“Yes.”
“Are they taking us?”
“No one is taking anyone tonight.”
He looks at me.
I repeat it.
“Not tonight.”
He hates the phrase now.
I can tell.
Rachel waits until he goes back upstairs.
Then she gives me the name.
“Vanessa Price.”
“Who is she?”
“Their mother’s older sister.”
“Why wasn’t she identified before?”
“She and the children’s mother were estranged.”
“Can she take all five?”
Rachel does not answer immediately.
“Rachel.”
“She says she can.”
The room seems to tilt.
“Then what happens to me?”
“That depends on what the court decides is best for them.”
I look toward the ceiling.
Five children are sleeping above us in a room I built for them before I knew the sound of their voices.
A biological aunt may walk into court Monday and erase me with one sentence.
I should feel relief.
Kinship placement is supposed to be good news.
Instead, something in Dana’s face makes me uneasy.
“What?”
She has been reading from her tablet.
“Vanessa Price filed a kinship petition at 5:42 this afternoon.”
“So?”
Dana scrolls.
“She did not ask for all five children.”
My blood goes cold.
“Who did she ask for?”
May you like
Dana looks up.
“Ben and Grace.”
