My Little Neighbor Didn’t Let Anyone Into His Home Until a Police Officer Arrived and Stepped Inside

Jack nodded, wiping his face with his sleeve.

The next week was paperwork and calls.

Child Protective Services came out.

They inspected my house. They talked to Jack’s school.

They called his mom in Alabama, where she’d gone to take care of her sick parents.

She cried on speakerphone so hard I could hear her breath catching.

“I thought it would be three days,” she kept saying. “Then Dad got worse.

Then Mom fell again. I kept thinking, ‘Tomorrow I’ll go back.’ I know I messed up. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

In the end, they agreed: Jack could stay with me, as long as his mom stayed in contact and didn’t vanish again.

He moved into my guest room with his backpack, his game console, and the skateboard.

He stood in the doorway, awkward.

“So, um… what do I call you?” he asked.

“Helen? Or…”

“You can call me whatever feels right,” I said.

He stared at his shoes, then looked up.

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