10
‘They’re a very nice couple,’ says the social worker, gripping my hand just a touch too firmly. ‘And I heard’ – she leans down conspiratorially – ‘they’re looking for a child to adopt. My, you’re lucky to get such a fast placement.’
We stand in front of a house, but it’s all wrong. Front steps blue and shiny where they should be well worn by bare feet. A manicured yard, where weeds should warp reassuringly, forming their own protective netting around the house. This house is bald. Too new. Too perfect. It looks like it has no stories to tell. Its windows are blank like empty eyes. The social worker – Reuta – presses the doorbell with a finger. She holds it for a long beat. There is a pause. The light patter of anxious footsteps. My heart quickens; the door creaks open.
Behind it is a
