Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

“You’re right,” I say, my voice softer and shivering—whether it’s the cold or the starkness of the emotions, I’m a mess right now. “I do want you to eat broccoli and do your homework. One day those things will be important to you, too, but not right now. I get that.”

“No, you don’t.”

“It feels like nothing matters now that your parents are gone. It feels like there’s no reason for living. Or worse—like maybe if you’d just been better while they were alive, if you’d brushed your teeth without them having to ask you, if you’d gotten a better grade at school, maybe they’d still be alive. But they wouldn’t. They wouldn’t. And it feels like it will never be okay again.”

There’s more crying. “Yes. Yes.”

Something shifts in the trees beyond us, and I realize that Mr. Rochester has found us. He’s letting me talk to her, though, and I’m grateful for that.

“I do know, sweetheart. My dad died when I was twelve. Older than you, but he was still my whole world. And it hurt so bad. Worse than the time I broke my arm. Worse than anything I could imagine. I felt like I was bleeding, like I was dying inside, and no one could see that. They thought I was fine. They thought I could just be sad and then move on.”

A sniffle now. “What did you do?”

“I don’t know. Or maybe I do know, I just don’t want you to copy my example. I went dead inside, really. I just pretended like I was okay, but I wasn’t okay. Not then, and not now. Maybe I never will be, but I don’t want that for you, sweetheart. You aren’t a ward of the state. You have a family. You have a home. You can feel safe again, someday.”

“It’s not a real home,” she says, her voice thick. This is not the child full of anger and resentment. There’s only sadness now. “It’s not a real family.”

“It may not seem like Mr. Rochester cares about you, but he does.”

“He doesn’t.”

“I care about you, too.”

“You don’t either. I heard Beau talk to you on the first day. I’m the reason why you’re getting a paycheck right now. That’s why you’re here. Because of money.”

The accusation draws blood because it’s true. “Yes. I can’t deny that.”

“See? No one cares about me anymore.”

“Do you know the reason why I accepted this job? Why I moved so far away from where I lived? Because I want to go to college and become a social worker. Because I want to help kids, kids like you who’ve gone through something hard. I may have only met you because I took the job, but now that I’m here and I’ve gotten to know you, I do care about you. Only for you.” I swallow hard around the knot in my throat, knowing I might very well get fired after this. “And no matter what happens, even if I have to go away, I will never stop caring about you.”

I know the birthday and favorite food of every kid who was ever a foster child in a home with me. Even the ones who stole lunch money from my backpack, even the ones who got me in trouble to save their own skins. They’re all part of my broken, haunting family.

And now there’s Paige.

And somehow, somehow there’s Mr. Rochester.

She sniffles. “I’m still not going to do the schoolwork. It still doesn’t matter.”

I drop my head back against the rough bark. “I understand.”

“We can go inside though. Can I have a Pop-Tart?”

An uneven laugh escapes me. “Sure, sweetheart.”

Boots crunch across twigs on the ground. Mr. Rochester appears, looking sober and severe. Without a word, he reaches his arms up for Paige. She’s still a good three feet above him. Her feet dangle out of reach. I hold my breath.

She lifts her arms and then lets herself fall. He catches her easily, like her forty-five pounds is nothing at all. My hands clench at the branch I’m on. There’s trust between them, even if they’re both denying it. Even if they’re both grieving separately. It was clear in that single jump, where she left the branch and landed in his arms, knowing he would be there.

I don’t have that kind of safety net.

Grasping the top of the branch, I swing myself down so I’m hanging by my palms. The bark rips into my skin, leaving broken streaks of blood all the way down. I let myself go and fall onto the hard-packed ground. Shocks of pain shoot up my calves.

Mr. Rochester turns and walks away, carrying Paige in his arms.

I scoop up the kitten and carry her inside the mansion for the second time.

When we make it inside the door, Mr. Rochester sets Paige down and points toward the kitchen. “Get yourself a Pop-Tart and put it in the toaster. I’ll be in there in a minute to start it. And I might even make you some hot chocolate.”