Director Cara Finch from Maplewood Orphanage was coming for a home visit. It was the first annual check-in since the adoption.
Mom had been cooking since five a.m. The dining table was buried under a feast fit for a holiday spread.
Braised pork shoulder. Sweet-and-sour sea bass. Mushroom chicken stew. The whole apartment smelled incredible.
On the kitchen counter, shoved into the corner, sat a blackened aluminum lunchbox.
Inside were leftover vegetable scraps and watered-down soup from two nights ago. Already sour.
That was mine.
Director Finch was a heavyset woman in her fifties. The moment she walked through the door and took in the scene, her eyes welled up.
"Mr. Chavez, in twenty years running the orphanage, I've never seen a family treat a child the way you treat Harrison. Not once."
Terence waved her off with practiced humility.
"It's only right. Harrison is our own flesh and blood, as far as we're concerned."
Harrison performed a piano piece he'd learned two days ago. He butchered it completely, but Director Finch led the applause.
Riding the warm atmosphere, Mom stood and walked to my bedroom door.
Her expression carried a hint of tenderness.