For one terrible second, I prepared myself for some unbearable confession.
“Luke,” I said. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”
He stared at his plate.
Then whispered,
“I have a sister.”
I blinked.
“A sister?”
“A half-sister.”
“Your file said you had no siblings placed with you.”
“She isn’t placed with me.”
His voice cracked.
“Not anymore.”
Slowly, with long silences between sentences, Luke began telling me the truth.
—
Her name was Emma.
She was nine.
They had entered foster care together years earlier.
From the beginning, Luke had taken care of her.
“I basically raised her,” he told me.
He made her breakfast.
Helped her get ready for school.
Tried to do her hair.
Helped with homework.
When she woke frightened in the middle of the night, she went looking for Luke.
Not the adults.
Luke.
He had been a child raising another child.
Then, when Luke was fourteen, a family decided they wanted to adopt Emma.
