Chapter 5: "Invisible Bridges"
January 20, 1998 – Los Angeles, California
California Children's Home Society
—
The orphanage lived in a deceptive calm. Outside, children ran after a ball, their laughter overflowing like waterfalls; inside, caregivers cleared dishes, folded blankets, and gave distracted instructions. Everything seemed like just another Tuesday, identical to so many others.
Except for Richard.
For him, every corner had a different glow, as if it were recording memories in his mind. The creaking of the wooden floor in the hallway, the smell of soap on the freshly folded clothes, the children's voices repeating made-up songs… everything felt more alive, more urgent. As if his heart knew he was about to leave it behind.
Ever since he heard that word—adoption—his world was never the same. No matter how many jokes he cracked at the breakfast table, how many fake laughs he got during tickle fights, or how many times he deliberately tried to lose at board games so Lily would smile proudly, believing she'd finally beaten him. The idea was there, embedded like an impossible-to-peel patch: go with Jackson, leave the orphanage, start a new life.
The watch on his wrist glittered as a constant reminder. The metal was cold to the touch, but it weighed as if it carried centuries of history. It was too big for him, too serious for a child… and yet, every time he looked at it, he felt it pulse with a life of its own. As if it were in sync with the future that awaited him, even if he couldn't yet imagine it.
Some nights, he would hold it to his chest and whisper softly, so no one would hear, "Is it really worth it?"
During the day, he pretended nothing had changed. He played soccer with Tommy, helped Lily make up stories about princesses with superpowers, and even joked with Susan, comparing her to "an impossible-to-beat final boss because he always has the last word." Everyone was laughing, everyone seemed happy.
But inside, he knew. There was a new tension in the air. The caretakers looked at him with hidden tenderness, as if they wanted to enjoy his last days with him. Susan, especially, had that mixture of pride and sadness in her eyes every time she saw him running around the yard.
Richard felt everything. He felt the fear of leaving behind what was already his: his friends, his routines, that place he had, against all odds, managed to call home. But he also felt a strange force pushing him forward, as if someone invisible was saying:
> "The bridge is already in front of you. You just have to cross it."
And that certainty disarmed him. Because he wanted to stay and he wanted to leave. Because he loved those he had, but he also dreamed of what was to come. Because, in the end, what she feared most wasn't leaving... but discovering that she could truly be happy somewhere else.
—
Jackson returned a week later. The same black car pulled up in front of the orphanage, so shiny it reflected the clear Los Angeles sky. When the door opened, the man emerged with that impossible-to-ignore presence: impeccable suit, shoes that looked freshly polished, back straight, gaze steady. He didn't need to speak for the whole atmosphere to change.
The caretakers stood up straight like soldiers before a general. The children, playing tag in the yard, lowered their voices to a curious murmur. Even Susan, standing at the entrance to the dining room, crossed her arms protectively.
For Richard, the sight was a strange mix. On the one hand, discomfort: Jackson seemed too large, too distant, as if he had stepped out of a black-and-white gangster movie. But at the same time, there was something fascinating about him. That confidence, that way of occupying space without asking permission… Richard couldn't help feeling the watch on his wrist weigh more every time he saw it.
Principal Harris greeted him with his usual formality, extending his hand and offering to let him into the office. But this time, Jackson shook his head.
"No. I want to spend time with him. With Richard. Outside."
The phrase echoed through the hallway. Harris raised an eyebrow in surprise. Susan pursed her lips, assessing the situation as if she wanted to make sure Richard wouldn't end up being devoured by the overly serious man.
Meanwhile, Richard sat on the dining room steps, lost in his own world. He had an empty can in front of him and was using it as a target, throwing pebbles with surgical precision. One after another, they bounced off with a metallic clink. When he heard his name and saw Jackson approaching, he looked up with exaggerated calm, as if he were an NPC who had just unlocked a side quest.
"A walk?" he asked sarcastically, tilting his head. "So what, are there rewards or experience points at the end?"
The joke drew a couple of chuckles from the children eavesdropping from the yard, but Susan frowned even deeper. Richard, as always, used sarcasm as a shield.
Jackson watched him silently for a few seconds, studying his eyes more than his words. He didn't fully understand the gamer reference, but recognized the intent: distance, distrust. A kid too smart for his age, testing the waters.
"The reward," he replied calmly, without looking away, "is time. I want to meet you."
Richard blinked, surprised. He hadn't expected such a direct, simple answer. His mouth tilted, partly amused and partly uncomfortable. He stood up, dusting off his pants, still holding the rock.
"Okay," he shrugged. "But if I get bored, I'll run back."
A murmur ran through the children watching from the doorway, as if waiting for Jackson's reaction. But he wasn't offended, didn't reprimand him. He only offered a brief, discreet half-smile that went almost unnoticed. Almost.
Susan saw it and frowned even deeper. That small curve of the serious man's lips confirmed something she didn't want to admit: Jackson knew what he was doing. He knew how to approach, how to gain ground in the boy's heart without forcing the door.
Richard, for his part, feigned indifference. But as he walked beside Jackson toward the playground exit, he felt something strange in his stomach. It wasn't fear. It wasn't rejection. It was that same feeling you get when you start a new level in an unfamiliar game: a mixture of uncertainty… and excitement.
—
The first outing was simple. No fancy dinners, no chauffeur-driven cars, no luxury lounges. Jackson, contrary to everyone's expectations, chose an ice cream shop in downtown Los Angeles. A small place with round tables and colorful plastic chairs, drawings of smiling cones on the walls, and a sweet aroma mingling with that of freshly baked cones.
For everyone else, it was an ordinary day. Parents with their children, teenagers laughing over milkshakes, couples sharing spoonfuls while giggling. But for Richard… it was almost surreal. He, a child from an orphanage, was sitting across from a man who looked like he stepped off the cover of a financial magazine, with his perfectly tailored three-piece suit and polished shoes. Seeing him there, holding an ice cream cone as if it were a museum piece, was almost a comedy sketch.
Richard chose chocolate sprinkles, with a double scoop, because if he was going to live in the moment, he was going to live it well. Jackson ordered vanilla. Simple, no toppings, as if even in that he chose sobriety.
"Have you never had ice cream?" Richard asked, his mouth full, noticing the stiffness with which the man held the cone.
Jackson looked at him with that imperturbable seriousness that seemed tattooed on his face. But there was something in his eyes, a hidden spark that softened his expression.
"A long time ago. At your age, maybe."
Richard studied him suspiciously. It wasn't just a phrase: there was weight behind it. As if that memory belonged to a time Jackson had buried, too distant, too painful. A fragment of childhood he didn't usually allow himself to remember.
The boy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and indicated his own ice cream with his chin.
"Well... it melts if you don't eat it."
Jackson looked down at the cone as if he had just realized this. He took a clumsy, stiff bite, like someone who didn't know how to "behave" in front of such a simple dessert. The vanilla scoop tilted dangerously, and a trickle of cream fell into his hand.
Richard burst into a laugh so natural that even he was surprised. A clean, sarcastic laugh that brought tears to his eyes. The other customers glanced sideways, some smiling at the scene: a serious, impeccable man, thrown off balance by something as trivial as ice cream, and a child doubled over in front of him.
Jackson, instead of getting upset, met Richard's gaze and allowed a hint of a smile to spread across his lips. Small, contained, but real.
"I guess I need practice," he admitted quietly.
"I guess!" Richard repeated, still laughing. "No one bites into ice cream like that... it feels like you're fighting with it."
"It's possible," Jackson conceded, wiping himself with a napkin with all the dignity he could muster. "But in my defense, I was never trained for this."
"Yeah, right," Richard said mockingly. "Mr. Suit, you can talk like an office robot, but you can't eat ice cream. Now that's weird."
The comment made a couple of kids at the next table laugh. Richard felt proud of his "audience," while Jackson watched him silently. For the first time, he didn't see a kid trying to defend himself against the world with sarcasm, but a boy simply enjoying a normal, light, free moment.
That contrast struck him. And in the middle of the ice cream parlor, with the murmur of other people's conversations and the clinking of spoons against glasses, Jackson understood something: Richard didn't need speeches or promises. He needed moments. Small, simple, but real.
Richard, for his part, licked his fingers and looked at him out of the corner of his eye. There was something odd about that man. Too serious, too formal… but also too willing to make a fool of himself just to be with him. And that, though he wouldn't admit it out loud, made him feel a little less alone.
It was awkward, it was strange, it was clumsy… but it was also a start.
—
As the days went by, the visits became routine. The black car no longer caused such a stir in the orphanage: the children looked at it with the same mixture of respect and envy, while Susan observed it with that maternal caution that never let her guard down.
Jackson arrived punctually, always dressed with the same correctness, but little by little his unwavering demeanor began to crack into small fissures of humanity when he was with Richard.
Some afternoons, he took him to the park. Richard would run straight for the swings, conquer them as if they were thrones, and demand to be pushed. Jackson, clumsy in such endeavors, did so with measured movements, afraid of letting go too hard.
"Higher," Richard would shout, spreading his legs as if he wanted to touch the sky.
"It's not prudent," Jackson would respond, clenching his jaw.
"Prudent is boring!" the boy would retort, between peals of laughter.
And although he grumbled, Jackson eventually gave in. The swing went higher, and the man's heart beat faster, not only from fear of an accident, but from a strange feeling: that laugh, that sparkle in Richard's eyes, reminded him of something he thought he'd forgotten.
Other times, he took him to bookstores. Not to the executive or political sections, but to the illustrated story corner. Richard walked between the shelves with the solemnity of a general on a special mission, leafing through covers with dragons, astronauts, and castles.
"Which one do you want?" Jackson would ask.
"All of them." Richard smiled sideways, knowing he couldn't, but enjoying the gesture.
In the end, he would choose one or two, always with striking drawings, and take them to a nearby bench. There, the man in the suit and the orphaned boy would share pages, taking turns reading. Richard read in a loud, exaggerated voice, using ridiculous voices for the characters, while Jackson listened patiently… and sometimes even with a hidden glimmer of pride.
There were awkward silences, yes. Richard wasn't your average child. Sometimes he blurted out questions no adult expected from a five-year-old:
"Did you lose someone?" he asked one afternoon, without looking up from his book.
Jackson froze. He could have dodged the question, but instead, he murmured:
"Yes."
"Does it hurt?"
"A lot," he admitted, his voice low, heavy with an ancient weight.
Richard didn't ask any more. He just leaned against his arm, as if that answer would be enough.
Jackson wasn't your typical grandfather either. He rarely smiled, spoke in short sentences, always measured his words as if he were in front of a board of directors. But despite everything, Richard found something different about him: he didn't treat him like an average child, or like someone fragile. He treated him as if he truly mattered.
And between those silences, tender moments slipped in that spoke louder than a thousand speeches.
Like that afternoon in the car, when Richard, exhausted from running so much, fell asleep with an open book in his lap. Jackson glanced at him in the rearview mirror, stopped the car for a second, and without thinking twice, took off his jacket and carefully covered him. The boy sighed in his sleep, and Jackson gripped the steering wheel tightly, feeling a warmth in his chest he hadn't felt in years.
Or like in the park, when Richard tripped and fell to his knees. The scrape wasn't serious, but his eyes filled with unshed tears. Before he could stand, Jackson had already picked him up, with a "Are you okay?" that didn't sound like an empty phrase, but real fear. The panic of losing him.
Richard looked at him in surprise. Never before had anyone cared so much about a simple scrape.
"I'm fine," she replied, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. "It was nothing."
"For me, it is," Jackson replied in a barely audible whisper.
Invisible bridges were being built between them, though neither of them would admit it out loud. To Richard, Jackson was still an enigma: too serious, too different... but growing closer. To Jackson, Richard was more than an orphaned child: he was an echo of what he had lost, and a promise of what he could still save.
And though no one said it, every outing, every clumsy ice cream sundae, every shared book... was another brick in the silent construction of a family that was just beginning to exist.
—
One afternoon, Jackson took him to a quiet café, tucked away among tree-lined streets away from the noise of the city. The place smelled of roasted coffee and freshly baked bread, with a soft murmur of distant conversations. It wasn't the kind of place where a man in a suit and a six-year-old boy seemed to belong, but there they were, sharing a wooden table by the window.
Richard idly nibbled on a cookie, his feet dangling off the ground. He hummed softly, thinking of anything but the serious adult in front of him. Until he heard a change in Jackson's tone.
"Richard," the man said, his voice low but so firm it seemed to cut through the air.
The boy looked up, frowning. That wasn't the "fun side quest" voice. It was something else. Serious. Dangerously serious.
"There's something you should know."
Richard put the cookie down halfway. His veteran gamer instincts kicked in: alert, final boss detected.
Jackson took a breath, as if each word weighed tons.
"I'm not just someone who wants to adopt you." He paused briefly, so heavily that Richard felt a knot in his stomach. "I'm your grandfather."
Silence fell like a silent thunderclap. The boy stared at him without blinking, the cookie still between his fingers, as if the world had frozen.
"My... what?" His voice cracked, a strange cross between disbelief and fear.
"Your grandfather," Jackson repeated, leaning slightly toward him, lowering his voice. "Your mother's father."
Richard's heart leapt. He felt dizzy, as if the chair were wobbling beneath him. Part of his mind screamed, "It can't be," another wanted to burst out laughing nervously, and a tiny, hidden part desperately hoped it were true.
"That doesn't make sense," he finally muttered, clenching his fists on the table. If you're my grandfather... why weren't you here before? Where were you?
The words came out like knives. The café remained just as peaceful, but for them everything stopped.
Jackson closed his eyes for a moment. The gesture wasn't one of annoyance, but of pain. Like someone who has received a blow they know they deserve.
"I wasn't where I should have been." His voice lowered, deep, laden with raw regret. "And that's something I'll always carry. But I'm here now. Because I don't intend to lose you too."
Richard looked at him with suppressed rage, his cheeks burning. He wanted to hurl more questions, more reproaches. But there was something in his voice, something broken, that disarmed him.
"And my mom?" he asked suddenly, his voice trembling.
Jackson's jaw tightened. His eyes darkened with a shadow of pain he couldn't hide.
"We'll talk about her... when the time comes."
Richard felt that answer was a wall. He could kick him, he could scream, but he wasn't going to break him. Still, instead of resignation, what he saw was something else: a pain so great that not even a man nearly two meters tall could carry it without staggering.
The boy lowered his head. A whirlwind of emotions battered him from within: anger at being abandoned, sadness at what he had lost, fear of believing… and a hidden, dangerous longing that made him want to accept every word.
"So…" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of cups and spoons, "do you want to take care of me because I'm your grandson?"
Jackson stared at him, not running away, and reached across the table. He didn't touch him, didn't force him, just left it there, like a half-built bridge.
"I want to take care of you because you are you, Richard." His words were firm, unadorned, laden with truth. "And because you deserve someone who won't give up on you."
Richard swallowed. Tears welled in her eyes, but she held them back with the stubbornness of someone who refuses to show weakness. She looked at the hand near hers and, after an endless silence, let her small fingers barely touch it.
She didn't admit it out loud, but those words burned into her chest like fire.
In that anonymous café, amid the aroma of coffee and cookies, something neither of them expected was born: the first glimmer of family.
—
The following days were a whirlwind of emotions. For Richard, the world seemed to have changed color. Jackson was no longer just "the elegant stranger in a movie suit," but someone who, in a mysterious and undeniable way, was connected to him. His grandfather. That word echoed in his head like an impossible-to-ignore echo.
But the fear was still there, clinging like a shadow. Every time he returned to the orphanage and heard Lily's laughter as she ran barefoot through the courtyard, or Tommy's exaggerated stories about how he would one day be an astronaut, Richard felt his heart break in two. They were his present, his refuge. Jackson was a promise of the future. And he was barely six years old to be burdened with a decision that seemed like an adult's.
One ordinary afternoon, while the others played makeshift soccer with a worn-out ball, Richard and Jackson moved away. They sat on a wooden bench by the wall, where the winter sun fell gently. Richard stared at the ground, drawing invisible lines with the toe of his shoe.
He took a deep breath and, with a courage that seemed beyond his years, finally spoke:
"If I go with you... will I be able to come back here on the weekends? See my friends?"
His voice came out shakier than he intended, as if he feared the answer would destroy the little he'd built with him.
Jackson blinked, surprised. Not by the request itself, but by what it implied: this boy wasn't thinking about toys or privileges, but about not losing what he loved. It wasn't a whim. It was a desperate attempt to protect his roots.
The man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked him straight in the eyes.
"Of course," he replied, with a firmness that left no room for doubt. "You'll never have to choose between them and me."
Richard looked up suddenly. His eyes glittered, as if he couldn't quite believe an adult could reassure him that much.
"Promise?" he asked, the question echoing all the times someone hadn't fulfilled his duty.
Jackson held his gaze without blinking, and in that instant, he dropped all the masks, all the hardness that always surrounded him.
"I promise."
Richard swallowed. He didn't say anything else, but his shoulders slumped, as if he were finally allowing himself to let go of some of the invisible burden he was carrying.
At that moment, Lily ran toward them, her face smeared with dirt and a grin from ear to ear.
"Richard, come on! It's your turn to be the goalkeeper!" she shouted, throwing the ball at his feet.
Richard caught the ball with perfect reflex and looked at Jackson with a half smile, that mix of sarcasm and tenderness that defined him.
"You heard me, 'Grandpa.' I have responsibilities here too."
Jackson let out a small, brief laugh, almost unheard of, but enough to make Susan, who was watching from a distance, gasp. I'd never seen that man truly smile.
Richard ran again with his friends, letting the ball carry him away into the laughter. Jackson sat on the bench, watching. And for the first time in years, he felt like the future wasn't just a burden... but an opportunity.
Richard, in the middle of the game, looked up at him for a moment. The watch on his wrist gleamed in the sun. And though the fear was still there, that promise became an anchor.
He wasn't alone.
—
Days later, the orphanage received an unexpected delivery. First, two small trucks arrived, one with sealed boxes and the other with supplies. Curious children crowded around the windows, as if waiting for a spectacle. When the workers began unloading new clothes, blankets, toys still smelling of the factory, and then tools to repair the swings and the playground gates, the commotion was immediate.
"Look! A bicycle!" Tommy shouted, his eyes shining.
"And board games!" added Lily, who could barely carry a box larger than herself.
Principal Harris tried to maintain calm and order, but even he couldn't hide the surprise on his face. He didn't need a letter to know who was behind it all. Neither did Susan. They exchanged a silent look, the one that said: Jackson.
For the children, however, there was no mystery. There was only excitement. The common room, once dull and with worn furniture, filled with laughter as they uncovered new dolls, cars, and balls. Outside, men were rolling up their sleeves to tighten the rusty swing chains and repair the basketball backboard that had been bent for months.
Richard was in the middle of it all, as always, organizing makeshift soccer teams and laughing uproariously while Lily complained that he always wanted to be a striker. The new ball bounced with a crisp, clean sound, different from the hollow echo of the old, patched-up ball.
Susan, from the doorway, watched the scene. Her arms were crossed, not out of harshness, but rather out of restraint. A small, almost hidden smile escaped her. She murmured softly, more to herself than to Harris:
"That man... maybe he's not as tough as he seems."
The headmaster glanced at her and nodded slowly, though without saying a word.
Meanwhile, Richard paused for a moment, breathing heavily after a goal. He stared at the ball in his hands. For a moment, as if he could sense the gesture behind that gift, he looked up at the orphanage gate, at the street, as if expecting to see him there, staring into the distance.
He didn't see him, of course. Jackson wasn't there. But inside him, something ignited. A new certainty: even when he wasn't present, someone was thinking of him, caring for him in their own way.
Richard's heart tightened with a strange mix of gratitude and melancholy. He turned to Lily, who pushed him with a mischievous laugh, and ran after the ball again.
The yard, renovated and filled with laughter, was no longer just a childhood refuge. Now it was also an invisible bridge to the man who, without words, had begun to rebuild what had once been broken.
The golf course was almost empty that afternoon. The Los Angeles sun slanted down, dyeing the grass a golden green. The thud of a ball broke the silence, followed by a frustrated snort.
"Fuck, I went to the damn lake again," Jay Pritchett growled, shaking his club as if it were his fault.
Jackson, a few feet away, watched the trajectory with imperturbable calm. He had the same composure he'd had in the army: few words, fewer gestures, and an unlit cigar at the corner of his mouth. He hit his ball with surgical precision; a straight, clean shot that landed meters from the hole.
"You still have the sniper's pulse," Jay murmured, picking up his glass of whiskey from the cart.
"Practice never fades," Jackson replied, with a half-smile that barely raised a wrinkle on his face.
They walked together to the next position, in the comfortable silence of old comrades. Jay was the first to break it:
"I heard rumors... that you had an orphanage refurbished. And I'm not talking about just any donation. I'm talking thousands, Evans. That's not something you usually do."
Jackson leaned the stick against the cart and took a sip of whiskey before answering. His gaze drifted into the distance, to the open field that seemed to merge with the memory of other lands, other times.
"It wasn't charity, Jay. It was gratitude."
Jay looked at him out of the corner of his eye, frowning.
"Gratitude for an orphanage? What the hell did those brats do to you to make you drop your wallet like that?"
Jackson took a deep breath, lowering his glass.
"They took care of someone when I was gone. My blood." He paused, as if savoring the harshness of those words. "Richard. My grandson."
Jay opened his mouth, surprised, but didn't interrupt. He knew when to stop.
"That place fed him, protected him, made him laugh when I wasn't there. Me, who should have been." Jackson's voice lowered, husky, laden with something not even whiskey could soften. "You can't repay a kid for the years you lost… but you can thank those who did the work for you."
Jay took a long drag on his cigar, nodding slowly.
"I've known you since Vietnam, Evans. And you rarely talk about family. If you're saying this, it's because it really means something."
Jackson looked at him, serious.
"Yes."It means everything.
There was a heavy silence, broken only by the distant chirping of birds and the noise of the electric cart. Jay raised his glass to his friend.
"Then let's toast. To those brats who make even old soldiers want to feel something again."
Jackson raised his, clinking it gently.
"And to not losing the second chance."
They took a long drink. And in the air, floating between the freshly cut grass and the memories of war, remained the certainty that even the toughest men harbored wounds that only family—or the hope of it—could begin to heal.
—
The visits continued. At first, they were awkward outings, filled with awkward silences and questions no one knew how to phrase. But over time, the spaces filled with something different: trust.
Richard still maintained his cloak of sarcasm like armor. Sometimes he made cutting remarks, other times he rolled his eyes with exaggerated expressions. But between those walls of irony, cracks began to appear. Cracks through which genuine laughter, innocent gestures, and looks that betrayed him escaped.
Like that afternoon in the park, when Jackson tried to push him on the swing with the same gentleness with which he would load a rifle. Richard laughed out loud.
"Come on, Iron Grandpa, I'm not made of glass!" he yelled between laughs.
Instead of getting upset, Jackson pressed his lips together to hold back a smile. And with the second push, less awkward than the last, Richard cried out happily, like a child who could finally let go without fear.
Or that time at the bookstore. Richard chose an illustrated adventure book and, without realizing it, found himself leaning on Jackson's shoulder as they flipped through the pages. The man remained motionless, almost holding his breath, afraid that any sudden movement would shatter that fragile moment. When Richard looked up and caught him staring, he shrugged:
"I just... wanted to see the picture up close."
"I understand," Jackson replied with solemn calm, although inside he felt the warmth of a memory he never thought he'd have again: that of a child trusting him.
The silences, once awkward, began to become companionship. Sometimes they walked without speaking through the park or the neighborhood, each in his own thoughts, but certain that the other was there. Richard no longer felt the urge to fill every gap with sarcasm. And Jackson, for the first time in years, didn't feel the need to disguise his vulnerability with stiff phrases.
Susan and the other caregivers noticed the change. Richard, who had previously shied away from personal questions, now made loose comments about "when I went with Jackson" or "what my grandfather says." The word "grandfather" escaped his lips almost unintentionally, and when it did, Susan saw a different gleam in his eyes, a mixture of surprise and fear at having dared to utter it.
In one of those moments, as they drove back to the orphanage after an afternoon at the ice cream shop, Richard broke the silence with an unexpected confession:
"You know, sometimes I think... if you had been here before, my life would have been different." He said this while looking out the window, with the reflection of the headlights flashing by, not daring to turn toward him.
Jackson gripped the steering wheel tightly, swallowing the words that wanted to come out. He forced himself to keep his voice steady:
"And sometimes I think that if I had been here before, you wouldn't be the child you are now. And that child... is someone I'm proud of."
Richard slowly turned his head, surprised. He felt a lump in his throat, and to hide it, he let out a sarcastic snort:
"That sounds like cheap movie dialogue."
"Maybe," Jackson replied with a half smile, "but it's true."
That was one of those comfortable silences. The kind of silence that doesn't need words because it's already been said.
And so, little by little, the impossible began to happen: Richard stopped seeing Jackson as a cold, elegant stranger. He began to accept him... not just as someone who wanted to adopt him, but as something deeper.
Like family.
—