The first night after Eric was gone, the world became much too big and far too quiet. The foster home’s walls, yellowed and thick with the smell of boiled cabbage, seemed to grow outward, stretching away from the space I occupied on a mattress low to the floor. My hands gripped the rough blanket, knuckles white in the half-light leaking through a gap in the curtains. The halls outside creaked as someone shifted in bed or went to the bathroom. My thoughts chased the same circle: Eric gone, Eric gone, Eric gone. The words ran into each other until meaning blurred.
A social worker had left a teddy bear on the dresser that afternoon. Its fur was a cheap brown and its eyes were stitched crookedly, as if someone had made it in a hurry. I stared at it, daring it to mean something. It didn’t. Not at first. It just sat there, grinning, as if it didn’t know that the boy in the bed was missing half his heart.
Sleep was an ambush. It arrived in snatches—every time my eyelids drooped, images broke in: Eric’s small, dirt-streaked hands reaching for mine, the soft flop of his Halloween fireman’s hat, the sudden silence in the back seat of the car. I would jerk awake, heart drumming, not sure if I’d made any noise. I’d learned years ago not to cry out after bedtime, not to draw attention, not to give them another reason to send me somewhere else. But even in silence, loss screamed.
Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked. I counted the seconds, then the minutes, as if time was something I could measure and understand. The darkness pressed in from every direction. If I turned my head a certain way, I could almost imagine Eric sleeping close by, his soft snores and the twitch of his feet beneath the shared blanket. If I held perfectly still, the ache in my chest sharpened into hope and then dissolved into what felt like punishment.
A floorboard popped. Down the hall, one of the foster parents coughed, long and wet. I squeezed my eyes shut. The room was empty of comfort. I pressed my face into the pillow and whispered into the quiet, mouthing the words I’d learned from the adults: "You’re going to be okay, brother. You’re going to be okay." Maybe if I said it enough, I’d start to believe it. Maybe the words would reach wherever Eric was.
But the silence after sounded like a lie. Guilt gnawed at the edges of sleep. I wondered if I could have done something, anything, to keep him from that night, that car, that ending. In the dark, responsibility and blame were weights that didn’t care about age or innocence—they settled into my bones.
The next morning came without warning. The sun sneaked in, thin and watery, painting strange stripes across the mattress where I’d barely slept. I sat up slowly, feeling older, heavier, as if the night had added years. The teddy bear was still there, watching. I picked it up, hesitated, then hugged it to my chest, holding on as if it might keep something from disappearing again.
Footsteps thudded down the hall, sharp against the old wood. I didn’t move, not wanting to signal I was awake just yet. A voice called—a woman’s, impatient, the sound of routine and rules. Upstairs, another foster kid slammed a door. Life in the house went on, but it felt like there was a space around me, invisible and colder than the rest of the room: the space Eric used to fill.
The door swung open, spilling light and the smell of coffee into the room. The foster mother’s silhouette stood in the frame, her features lost to shadow. Her tone was brisk and businesslike. "Breakfast in ten. Get dressed."
I nodded, clutching the bear, but she had already turned away. The door closed again. I let my breath out in a slow, careful trickle, waiting for the day to feel real. It didn’t. It felt like a test I had already failed. But I stood and set the bear down, and started to dress anyway, because that was what came next—movement, routine, surviving the morning one task at a time.
Through the thin wall, the kids were fighting over the bathroom. Someone cried out, and the foster father barked a warning. I pulled my shirt over my head, feeling the familiar tightness in my throat. As I stepped out of the room, I caught my reflection in the mirror on the door: older, yes, but also still here.
At the end of the hallway, the phone rang. It was rare for anyone to call early. The foster mother hurried, muttering under her breath. Her voice lifted as she answered, brittle but polite. The words drifted: “Yes…he’s still here.”
My heart stuttered. I paused on the stairs, listening, the air holding its breath. Something was about to change again. I could feel it coming up the hallway, heavy and inevitable.
I waited, hands tightening on the railing, as the foster mother’s voice dropped low, her words muffled, her gaze flicking toward me. My body tensed, bracing for what would come next.
A decision, another move, another letting go—or maybe, for once, a chance to stay.