The social worker's name was Mrs. Albright. She was a friend of Michael's dad, which was the only reason Tiana understood why Brenda let her in the house without arguing. Mrs. Albright was tall and thin, with a kind face and glasses that kept sliding down her nose. She sat on the couch across from Tiana and Malcolm and spoke to them like they were grown.
"I know you've been through a lot," she said. "And I know this isn't what you want. But the law says you have to go to your father. He's your legal guardian now."
Tiana sat with her hands under her thighs, pressing them into the couch cushions. Maya was in Brenda's lap, sucking on a pacifier, her eyes heavy. Malcolm sat beside Tiana, his arms crossed, his face doing that thing where it showed nothing.
"We don't know him," Malcolm said.
Mrs. Albright nodded. "I know. I've spoken with him. He's… prepared to take you in."
Prepared. The word sat wrong in Tiana's mouth. Like something that was supposed to taste sweet but came out bitter.
"He don't want us," Malcolm said. It wasn't a question.
Mrs. Albright was quiet for a moment. Then she leaned forward, her hands clasped between her knees. "What he wants isn't what matters right now. What matters is that you three stay together. And that's what's going to happen."
Tiana looked at Malcolm. His jaw was tight. She could see the muscle in his cheek jumping, the way it did when he was trying not to say something.
"When?" he asked.
"Tomorrow."
---
That night, Tiana lay in the guest room bed with Maya beside her, listening to the house settle. Brenda's house was different from Grandma Ruth's—cleaner, newer, but it didn't have the same smell. No bacon grease, no lavender. Just vanilla air freshener and laundry detergent.
Maya had finally stopped crying. She'd cried for an hour after Brenda put her down, calling for Mama in that high, thin voice that went through Tiana like a knife. Tiana had held her, rocked her, whispered things that weren't true—Mama's coming, Mama's gonna be here soon—until Maya's eyes closed and her breathing evened out.
Now Tiana stared at the ceiling and listened to Malcolm moving around in the room next door. She heard the floorboards creak, then the sound of the window opening, then nothing.
She wondered what he was thinking. She wondered if he was scared. She was scared, but she didn't know how to say it. Scared of a father she didn't remember. Scared of a house she'd never seen. Scared of leaving Brenda, who had been kind, and Michael, who had made Malcolm laugh for the first time since Mama died.
I'm scared to death that I'll be left behind. The words came again, unbidden. She pressed her face into the pillow and tried to breathe.
---
The next morning, Brenda packed their things into three garbage bags—the same ones they'd brought from the apartment on North Avenue, now holding clothes from Grandma Ruth's house, from Brenda's, from a life that kept getting smaller.
Mrs. Albright arrived in a silver sedan. She helped load the bags into the trunk while Brenda stood on the porch with Michael, her hand on his shoulder.
Michael ran up to Malcolm before he got in the car. He shoved something into Malcolm's hand—a folded piece of paper.
"My address," Michael said. "And my mom's number. You call me, okay?"
Malcolm looked at the paper, then at Michael. He nodded.
Michael hugged him. It was quick, the way boys do when they're trying not to cry, but Tiana saw Malcolm's arms come up and hold on for a second before letting go.
"You too," Michael said to Tiana. He didn't hug her, but he punched her arm, gentle. "You call if you need anything."
Tiana nodded. She couldn't speak. Her throat was too tight.
Brenda knelt down and pulled Tiana into a hug. She smelled like cocoa butter, like Grandma Ruth, and Tiana closed her eyes and pretended for one second that she was on Gilmor Street, that everything was still whole.
"You be strong," Brenda whispered. "All of you. You hear me?"
Tiana nodded against her shoulder.
Then they were in the car. Maya in a car seat Mrs. Albright had brought, Malcolm by the window, Tiana in the middle. Brenda and Michael stood on the porch as the car pulled away, and Tiana watched them get smaller and smaller in the rear window until the car turned the corner and they were gone.
---
The drive to Richard's house took forty‑five minutes. Mrs. Albright talked, filling the silence with words that were meant to be comforting but mostly just floated in the air.
"He lives in a nice neighborhood," she said. "Good schools. Your stepmother seems very… organized."
Tiana watched Malcolm from the corner of her eye. He was looking out the window, watching the city change. They'd left Brenda's neighborhood—row houses, corner stores, bus stops—and passed through blocks of warehouses and empty lots, then into streets with wider lanes, trees planted every few feet, houses with driveways and garages.
The houses got bigger. The cars got newer. The people on the sidewalks were fewer, and their faces were different.
Tiana noticed it before she had words for it. The way the neighborhood changed colors. The way it got quieter, cleaner, emptier. She pressed her face to the window and watched a woman jogging past with a stroller, a man washing a car in a driveway, a kid on a bike with a helmet that matched his handlebars.
"This is where he lives?" Malcolm asked. His voice was flat.
Mrs. Albright glanced at him in the rearview. "Yes. It's a good area. You'll have your own room, a yard—"
"He didn't want us." Malcolm's voice was still flat, but there was something underneath it, something that made Tiana's stomach tighten. "Now he got a big house and a wife and he still don't want us."
Mrs. Albright didn't answer.
They turned onto Kenwood Avenue. The street was lined with tall oak trees, their leaves yellow and brown, scattered across lawns that looked like they'd been cut with scissors. The houses were brick, with columns and porches and cars in the driveways that didn't have dents or rust.
Mrs. Albright pulled into a driveway in front of a house with white shutters and a front porch swing. There was a basketball hoop above the garage, a garden hose coiled neat by the side of the house, a flag hanging from a pole by the door.
Tiana stared at it. It was the kind of house she'd seen on television, the kind she'd thought only existed for other people.
Mrs. Albright turned off the engine. "Ready?"
No one answered.
---
The door opened before they reached it.
Richard Steven stood in the doorway. He was tall, taller than Tiana remembered from the few times she'd seen him—the times she'd tried to forget. His hair was brown, thinning on top. His face was square, his jaw tight. He wore jeans and a button‑up shirt with the sleeves rolled, like he'd been doing something he didn't want interrupted.
He didn't smile. He didn't kneel. He stood in the doorway and looked at them like they were packages that had arrived at the wrong address.
Mrs. Albright stepped forward, her voice bright. "Richard, thank you for meeting us. These are the children—Malcolm, Tiana, and Maya."
Richard nodded once. His eyes moved over them—Malcolm first, then Tiana, then Maya in Mrs. Albright's arms. His face didn't change. There was no warmth, no coldness either. Just nothing. A blank wall where a father should have been.
Tiana felt Malcolm tense beside her.
"Come in," Richard said. His voice was low, clipped. He stepped back, holding the door, and they filed into the house.
The front hallway was clean, the floors polished wood, a table with a vase of fake flowers against the wall. It smelled like lemon cleaner and something else, something faintly sweet. Tiana stood in the hallway with her hands at her sides, trying not to touch anything.
Mrs. Albright set Maya down, holding her hand. "Where should we put the children's things?"
"Upstairs. Third door on the left." Richard's eyes flicked to Malcolm. "You can carry the bags."
It wasn't an offer. It was an instruction. Malcolm stared at him for a moment, something flickering in his face, then he went back outside to get the garbage bags from the trunk.
Mrs. Albright pulled out a folder from her bag. "Richard, if we could just go over the paperwork—custody, school enrollment, the children's medical records—"
"In the kitchen." Richard turned and walked down the hallway without looking to see if anyone followed.
Mrs. Albright gave Tiana a small, tight smile. "You three wait here. I'll be right back."
She followed Richard toward the back of the house. Tiana stood in the hallway, holding Maya's hand, listening to the sound of her own breathing.
Malcolm came back with two garbage bags, one in each hand. He set them down by the stairs and stood beside Tiana, looking down the hallway where their father had disappeared.
"He don't want us here," Tiana whispered.
"I know."
"Why he takin' us then?"
Malcolm's jaw tightened. " 'Cause he gotta."
---
The kitchen was at the back of the house, through a dining room with a long table and a china cabinet full of plates that looked like they'd never been used. Tiana stood in the doorway with Malcolm, watching Mrs. Albright spread papers across the counter while Richard sat on a stool, his arms crossed.
"These just need your signature," Mrs. Albright said, pointing to a line. "Acknowledging that you're accepting legal guardianship of the three minor children."
Richard picked up the pen. He held it over the paper, and for a moment, Tiana saw something pass over his face—a tightening around his mouth, a narrowing of his eyes. Then he signed. Quick. Hard. The pen scratched against the paper.
Mrs. Albright slid another form in front of him. "And here. Emergency contacts, medical authorization—"
Richard signed again. He didn't read anything. He didn't ask questions. He signed like a man getting rid of something, pushing the papers away from him as soon as the ink was dry.
Malcolm was watching from the doorway, his hands in his pockets. Tiana watched him watch their father, and she saw something she'd never seen in her brother's face before. It wasn't anger. It wasn't sadness. It was something colder, something that looked like a door closing.
He hates him, Tiana thought. He hates him already.
"There," Richard said, pushing the last form across the counter. "Done."
Mrs. Albright gathered the papers, tapping them straight. "Thank you, Richard. I know this is an adjustment for everyone, but I'm confident—"
"Is that all?" Richard stood up from the stool.
Mrs. Albright's smile faltered. "Yes. I'll check in next week to see how things are going."
"Fine." Richard walked past her, past Malcolm and Tiana, without looking at them. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "Your room is upstairs. Third door on the left. Dinner's at six."
Then he walked into the living room and turned on the television.
Mrs. Albright came to the doorway, her face apologetic. She knelt down in front of Tiana and Malcolm, her voice low. "He's… it's going to take time. You three just stick together. Okay?"
Tiana nodded. Malcolm didn't.
Mrs. Albright hugged them both, kissed Maya on the head, and then she was gone, the front door closing behind her with a soft click.
---
Tiana heard footsteps on the stairs before she saw her.
A girl came down, maybe a year younger than Tiana, with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and a freckled face. She was wearing jeans and a T‑shirt with a cartoon cat on it. She stopped on the bottom step and looked at them.
"You're the kids," she said. Not mean. Just stating a fact.
Tiana stared at her. Malcolm stood still.
The girl stepped off the stairs and walked toward them. "I'm Chloe. I'm gonna show you your room." She looked at Maya, who was sucking her thumb and staring at the floor. "Is she okay?"
"She's tired," Tiana said. Her voice came out smaller than she wanted it to.
Chloe nodded. She picked up one of the garbage bags—the heaviest one, the one with their clothes—and started up the stairs. "Come on."
Malcolm looked at Tiana. Tiana looked at Malcolm. Then they followed.
---
The room was at the end of the hall, the third door on the left. Chloe pushed it open and stepped aside.
It wasn't big, but it was bigger than anything they'd had before. Two beds with blue comforters, a dresser with a mirror, a closet with sliding doors. A window looked out onto the backyard, where a swing set stood in the grass, the seats swaying slightly in the wind. The walls were pale yellow. There was a rug on the floor, soft, the kind Tiana had only ever seen in stores.
Chloe set the garbage bag on one of the beds. "My mom said you'd be in here. The bathroom's down the hall, second door. Don't use Tyler's towel, he gets mad."
"Who's Tyler?" Malcolm asked.
Chloe's face flickered. "My brother. He's… just don't use his towel."
She looked at Tiana, and for a moment, Tiana saw something in her eyes—something that looked like understanding, or maybe warning.
"You want me to show you the rest of the house?" Chloe asked. "The kitchen, the backyard?"
Tiana looked at Malcolm. He was standing by the window, looking out at the swing set, his back to everyone.
"Okay," Tiana said.
Chloe smiled. It was small, but it was real.
---
The house was bigger on the inside than it looked from the street. Chloe showed them the living room where Richard was watching golf, his eyes on the screen, not on them. She showed them the dining room with the china cabinet, the half‑bathroom under the stairs, the laundry room with a washer and dryer that hummed quietly.
She showed them the backyard through the sliding glass door. The swing set, a patch of grass, a garden with flowers that were dying with the season.
"My mom likes gardening," Chloe said. "She'll probably make you help."
"Where is she?" Malcolm asked. He'd come down behind them, his arms crossed.
Chloe pointed toward the kitchen. "Making dinner."
They went back inside. In the kitchen, a woman stood at the stove, stirring a pot. She was shorter than Richard, with the same brown hair as Chloe, pulled back in a clip. She wore an apron over a blouse and slacks, and when she turned, Tiana saw her face—plain, neutral, neither warm nor cold.
"You must be the children," Susan said. Her voice was even. "I'm Susan. Your room is upstairs. Dinner will be ready soon."
She didn't smile. She didn't kneel. She just looked at them, her eyes moving from Malcolm to Tiana to Maya, and then she turned back to the stove.
Tiana waited for something—a hug, a kind word, something—but nothing came. Susan stirred the pot. The kitchen smelled like spaghetti sauce. The clock on the wall ticked.
Malcolm turned and walked back upstairs.
---
The first punch came at dinner.
They were all at the table—Richard at the head, Susan beside him, Chloe next to her. Tyler was across from Chloe, a boy with the same brown hair as his sister but thicker, meaner. He was eleven, Tiana learned later, but he was bigger than Malcolm, heavier, his arms thick from whatever kids his age did to get thick arms.
He stared at Malcolm the whole meal. Not looking away. Just staring, his fork moving from plate to mouth, his eyes never leaving Malcolm's face.
Malcolm didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on his plate, eating the spaghetti without tasting it. Tiana sat between Malcolm and Chloe, Maya in a high chair that Susan had pulled up to the table.
"So," Tyler said, his voice loud in the quiet. "These the new kids?"
Susan glanced at him. "Tyler."
"What? I'm just askin'." He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. "They gonna be here long?"
"They live here now," Chloe said quietly.
Tyler snorted. "For real? They live here?" He looked at Malcolm. "You hear that? You live here now. In my house."
Malcolm didn't respond. He cut a meatball in half, put it in his mouth, chewed.
"You deaf or something?" Tyler leaned forward. "I'm talkin' to you."
"Tyler." Richard's voice was low, not loud, but it cut through. "Eat your dinner."
Tyler sat back. But he was smiling. A small smile, the kind that said this isn't over.
Tiana's stomach turned. She looked at Chloe, who was staring at her plate, her face red.
---
After dinner, they went back to the room. Malcolm closed the door and leaned against it, his eyes shut.
"He's gonna be a problem," Malcolm said.
"Chloe's nice," Tiana offered.
Malcolm opened his eyes. "Chloe ain't the problem."
They unpacked the garbage bags in silence. Tiana put her clothes in the dresser, folding them the way Grandma Ruth had taught her. Malcolm put his things in the closet. Maya sat on one of the beds, pulling at the comforter, her face blank with exhaustion.
When Tiana was done, she sat on the bed next to Maya and pulled her close. Maya leaned into her, her thumb in her mouth, her eyes half‑closed.
"I want Mama," Maya whispered.
Tiana's throat closed. "I know, baby."
"When Mama comin'?"
Tiana didn't answer. She held Maya tighter, pressing her face into her sister's hair, breathing in the smell of baby shampoo and sleep.
Malcolm sat on the other bed, his back against the headboard, staring at the wall. Tiana watched him, saw the way his hands were fisted in the comforter, the way his jaw was tight.
"You okay?" she asked.
He didn't answer for a long moment. Then he said, "I hate him."
"Who?"
"All of 'em." His voice was low, shaking. "The dad. The stepmom. That boy. All of 'em."
Tiana didn't know what to say. She wanted to tell him it would be okay, but she didn't believe it. She wanted to tell him they'd leave, but there was nowhere to go.
So she just sat there, holding Maya, watching her brother fall apart in a way he wouldn't let her see.
---
That night, Tiana lay in the dark, listening to the sounds of the house. The creak of footsteps upstairs—Tyler's room, she guessed. The low murmur of the television from downstairs. The hum of the heater kicking on.
Maya was asleep beside her, her thumb fallen from her mouth, her face slack. Malcolm was in the other bed, his back to her, but she knew he wasn't asleep. She could hear his breathing, too even, too controlled.
"Malcolm," she whispered.
No answer.
"Malcolm."
"What?"
"You think we gonna be okay?"
A long silence. Then, so quiet she almost didn't hear it: "I don't know."
She lay there, staring at the ceiling, and thought about Grandma Ruth's kitchen. About the smell of bacon and lavender. About Grandpa James patting her foot, telling her she'd learn to whistle one day.
You said you'd never leave me. But you left me.
The words came again, and this time she didn't push them away. She let them sit in her chest, heavy and sharp, and she cried. Quietly, so Malcolm wouldn't hear. So Maya wouldn't wake up. She cried for her mother, for her grandparents, for the life that had been taken from her piece by piece until there was nothing left but this—a strange room in a strange house, a brother who was disappearing into his own silence, a sister who was too young to understand any of it.
She cried until her eyes burned and her head ached, and then she stopped. There was nothing left.
---
Across the room, Malcolm sat up.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked to the window. The street outside was quiet, the houses dark, the streetlights casting orange pools on the pavement. He pressed his forehead against the glass, the same way he'd done in the apartment on North Avenue, the same way he'd done at Grandma Ruth's.
He thought about his mother. About the way she'd spun him around the kitchen, singing off‑key. About the way she'd held him on the bench at Druid Hill Park, promising him a real home.
He thought about Grandma Ruth's hands, rough and warm. About Grandpa James's voice, gravel and honey.
He thought about Michael, about the scrap of paper in his pocket with the address and the phone number.
And he thought about this house. About the father who signed papers like he was signing away a burden. About the stepmother who looked at them like they were furniture that had been delivered to the wrong address. About Tyler, who was already looking for ways to hurt them.
He looked at his reflection in the glass. A boy with his mother's eyes, his grandfather's jaw, his grandmother's stubbornness.
What's gonna happen to us? he asked himself. What's gonna happen when Tyler gets tired of just looking? When the stepmother stops being just quiet? When the father decides he don't want to pretend no more?
He didn't have answers. He only had questions, and the weight of three lives that weren't his to carry but that he carried anyway.
He stayed at the window until the streetlights went out, until the house was silent, until the first gray light of morning began to creep across the yard.
And then he went back to bed, lay down beside his sisters, and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would figure out how to survive.
---