The word placement still made me feel like a piece of furniture.
But Ms. Laird didn’t speak like that.
She spoke like I was a person with a future.
Mr. Harlan arrived five minutes later, leather folder in hand as always. He nodded to me, then to Ms. Laird.
“The trust will cover whichever option you choose,” he said. “But we need to formalize the decision before you’re discharged.”
I swallowed. My voice was still thin, but it existed now.
“Options?” I rasped.
Ms. Laird laid them out plainly.
“Option one: a supervised residence with medical support. It’s stable, staffed, safe. You’d have privacy, but also structure.”
Mr. Harlan added, “Option two: a guardian arrangement approved through the advocate program—someone vetted, trained, monitored, not connected to your parents.”
Ms. Laird continued, “Option three: independent housing with in-home support, but that’s usually for older teens or adults. We could move toward it gradually.”
I stared at the ceiling for a moment.
Home wasn’t a warm word for me.
Home was where love was measured.
Home was where I learned to clap quietly.
Home was where my mother said only Raven could survive.
So when Ms. Laird asked the most important question, it landed like a gavel.
“Evelyn,” she said gently, “do you want to return to your parents’ custody at any point?”
My chest tightened.
I didn’t blink.
I didn’t hesitate.
“No,” I said, the word rough but clear.
Mr. Harlan’s face softened for the smallest moment—approval, not relief.
Ms. Laird nodded once, like she was marking something true.
