The Way Home by Katherine Spencer

is,” Claire added, lifting her gaze to meet Liza’s. “Jamie was always special to me. I don’t really know why. There were so many children coming in after school every day. The center was just a big drafty warehouse, fixed up inside, painted bright colors, clean and safe. And free to their parents,” she explained.
    â€œWe gave them meals and helped with homework. We gave them school supplies and coats, or winter boots. But what they really needed most was attention. Someone who cared what sort of day they had. Someone who cared if they understood their homework or did well on a test or got scolded by their teacher. There were so many stories at the end of their day.” Claire smiled, remembering. “When my work in the kitchen was done, I would go out to the main rooms and help with the children. My heart went out to all of them, but Jamie was the one who caught my eye. Always quiet, hanging in the corners. Didn’t smile much, or have many friends. His clothes were usually dirty and mismatched or outgrown. I could see he wasn’t just shy. He was scared. It took time, but he began to trust me. I was the only one who could help him with his schoolwork. We would memorize multiplication tables or the names of the fifty states.”
    He never cared how long he had to wait. He only wanted her, Claire recalled.
    â€œAs soon as he got to Crosby Street, he would come to the kitchen door and look for me,” she added. “I would give him an apron and gloves, and let him do small tasks. Something fun, like making cookies. He took it very seriously. He was very proud when we brought the cookies out to the other kids.” Claire could still see him, a skinny little boy carrying a platter piled high with treats.
    â€œI knew that he lived with his grandmother,” she went on. “But she had problems of her own. Sometimes his father lived there, too. He drank heavily and disappeared for months at a time. Which was a blessing of sorts . . . because Jamie’s father abused him, verbally and physically.”
    â€œOh, dear. That’s awful.” Liza’s tone was sympathetic. “What did you do?”
    â€œI didn’t even know at first,” Claire admitted. “Jamie was so good at hiding the truth from everyone. Ironically, he adored his father, made some sort of hero out of him in his mind. I was very angry at myself at the time for not seeing the signs. But once I did, I tried to get him out of that terrible household. He was removed once, but sent back,” she recalled. “I was applying to foster him myself, and maybe eventually adopt him, when my father needed me here.” Claire sighed, remembering one of the saddest days of her life. “My last afternoon at the center, I tried to explain to Jamie why I had to go. But he didn’t understand. He was far too young. Later, after my father died, I tried very hard to find him. Now . . . out of the blue . . . here he is.” Claire shook her head. “I can hardly believe it.”
    Liza nodded, taking in the story. “Thank you for telling me all that. I knew that you really cared about him, but I had no idea the situation was so . . . so intense.”
    â€œIntense,” Claire repeated. “I guess that is a good word to describe it.”
    â€œI didn’t realize you had such a hard choice to make. An impossible choice,” she added. “I didn’t really understand why giving him this job seemed so important to you. Now I do.”
    It had been hard for Claire to share her memories, especially the most painful ones. But it seemed a small price if Liza could be persuaded.
    â€œIt is important,” Claire admitted. “It would be a great favor to me if you would agree. If your only objection is that it might be hard to let him go—hard for me, especially—please know that I will accept the situation if it comes to that.