Chapter 13

[Vivi's POV]

Ms. Sophie appeared at the foster home late at night.

Hearing she wanted to adopt a girl, everyone crowded around.

But I didn't go forward.

I watched ants moving house under a tree by moonlight.

I genuinely didn't understand why everyone was so desperate to be adopted.

My birth mom was terrible to me. Every time she fought with Dad, the slaps landed on me.

Sometimes she'd grab whatever was closest—a shoe, a remote, a hanger—and I'd curl up in the corner until it was over.

The caregiver at the home said I was "too quiet" and "not engaging enough" for families.

Previous visitors would look at me, then pick someone louder, cuter, more eager to please.

I didn't blame them. Why pick the broken toy when shiny new ones were lined up?

That night, Ms. Sophie walked past every child reaching for her.

She stopped at my tree.

"What are you looking at?"

"Ants," I said. "They're carrying a dead beetle. It takes twelve of them."

Most adults would've said "That's nice" and moved on.

She crouched down beside me and watched the ants.

"Thirteen," she corrected. "There's one underneath you can't see."

We watched them together for four full minutes. Nobody had ever watched ants with me before.

"What's your name?"

"Vivi."

"Vivi, I need a favor. There's a very silly man who wants to jump off a building. I think if he sees a kid, he'll stop."

"Why would a kid stop him?"

"Because he's the type of person who cares about everyone except himself."

I thought about this. "Is he nice?"

"Annoyingly nice. The kind of nice that makes you mad."

"Will he hurt me?"

Her face changed. Something fierce flickered in her eyes.

"No. Never. I promise you that."

I looked at the ants. They'd made it to their hill with the beetle.

"Okay. I'll help."

On the rooftop the next day, when the tall man looked at me, I could tell immediately—he was the sad kind of person, not the angry kind.

Sad people were safe. Angry people hit you.

When he asked how old I was and I said "Four," and Ms. Sophie lied about me being their daughter, I expected him to see through it.

Instead, he looked at me like I was the sunrise after a very long night.

Nobody had ever looked at me like that.

When he said "Baby, call me Daddy again," I didn't have to fake the tears.

Because for the first time in my life, someone wanted me to stay.

Not because I was cute or well-behaved or useful.

Just because I was there.