THE EDGE OF THIRST
Chapter 27 : The First Day of School
The backpack was red.
Elijah had chosen it himself, after much deliberation and several tantrums in the store aisle. Red, because red was the color of superheroes and race cars and the cape he had worn for Halloween two years ago, back when he still lived with a foster family who had since forgotten his name.
Julian had bought two — one for school, one for emergencies — because he was a worrier and because the thought of his son going without anything made his chest ache.
“It’s too big,” Elijah said, staring at the backpack.
“It’s the right size.”
“It’s too big.”
“It has a dinosaur on it.”
Elijah considered this. “I like dinosaurs.”
“I know.”
“T-rexes are the best.”
“T-rexes are definitely the best.”
Elijah put on the backpack. It was, in fact, too big — it hung past his waist, swallowing his small frame — but his face was full of pride.
“I’m ready for school,” Elijah announced.
Julian’s heart clenched. “You are.”
“I’m going to learn things.”
“You are.”
“I’m going to make friends.”
“Lots of friends.”
Elijah looked up at him. “Will you be here when I come back?”
Julian knelt down. “We will always be here when you come back. Every day. Forever.”
“Forever forever?”
“Forever forever.”
Elijah nodded, satisfied, and ran to find Micah.
The school was a ten-minute walk from their apartment.
Julian held Elijah’s hand. Micah held the other. Juniper had wanted to come, but she had been left at home with Oliver, who had hissed his disapproval at being left behind.
“Papa,” Elijah said.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“What if the other kids don’t like me?”
Micah stopped walking. He knelt down in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the people who had to step around them.
“Then they’re missing out,” Micah said. “Because you are the best kid I know.”
“You have to say that. You’re my papa.”
“I’m your papa, and I’m telling you the truth.” Micah tucked a stray curl behind Elijah’s ear. “You’re brave. You’re smart. You’re kind. And anyone who doesn’t see that isn’t worth your time.”
Elijah’s eyes were wide. “Really?”
“Really.”
Elijah looked at Julian. “Daddy?”
“Your papa is right.” Julian knelt down too, so they were all at the same level. “You are exactly who you’re supposed to be. And the right people — the right friends — will love you for exactly that.”
Elijah was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence, holding hands.
The kindergarten classroom was chaos.
Crayons and glue sticks and construction paper everywhere. Children running, shouting, crying. A teacher with a kind face and tired eyes trying to wrangle nineteen five-year-olds into some semblance of order.
Elijah froze in the doorway.
“It’s loud,” Elijah whispered.
“It’s school,” Julian whispered back.
“I don’t like loud.”
“You don’t have to like it. You just have to survive it.”
Elijah looked up at him. “Like you survived the bar?”
Julian’s heart cracked. He had told Elijah the story of The Hideaway — not the whole story, not the parts about Marcus or the trial or the hospital, but the parts about love and courage and showing up even when you’re scared.
“Exactly like that,” Julian said.
Elijah took a breath. Then he let go of Julian’s hand and walked into the classroom.
Micah’s hand found Julian’s. “He’s going to be okay.”
“He’s going to be okay.”
“We’re going to be okay.”
“I don’t know about us.” Julian watched Elijah introduce himself to a small girl with pigtails. “I might cry.”
“You’re already crying.”
“I’m not crying. I’m leaking.”
Micah laughed and pulled Julian into a hug. “We’re going to be those parents, aren’t we?”
“What parents?”
“The ones who cry at every school event. The ones who take too many pictures. The ones who embarrass our children in front of their friends.”
“I hope so.” Julian pulled back and wiped his eyes. “I really hope so.”
The first week of school was hard.
Elijah came home every day exhausted and overwhelmed, full of stories about kids who were mean and teachers who didn’t understand and the cafeteria food that was “disgusting, Daddy, absolutely disgusting.”
But he also came home with drawings — crayon masterpieces of his family: Julian and Micah and Oliver and Juniper and a small stick figure with a red backpack that was supposed to be him.
He came home with new words — “recess” and “library” and “friends” — and new skills, like counting to a hundred and writing his name without any help.
And he came home happy.
Not all the time. Not every day. But more often than not, he came home with a smile on his face and a story on his lips and the kind of joy that only came from feeling safe.
“He’s thriving,” Julian said one night, watching Elijah sleep.
“He’s thriving.” Micah wrapped his arms around Julian’s waist. “We did that.”
“We did that.”
“We’re not terrible parents.”
“We’re not terrible parents.” Julian leaned back against Micah’s chest. “Who knew?”
“I knew.” Micah kissed his cheek. “I always knew.”
The call came on a Thursday.
Julian was at his desk, working on a brief, when his phone buzzed. Unknown number. He almost ignored it — but something made him answer.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Ashford?” A woman’s voice. Professional. Cold.
“This is Julian.”
“This is Angela Martinez from the Department of Children and Family Services. I’m calling about Elijah.”
Julian’s blood went cold. “What about Elijah?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss this over the phone. Can you come to my office this afternoon?”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
He hung up and called Micah.
The DCFS office was gray and depressing.
Julian and Micah sat in plastic chairs, holding hands, waiting for Angela Martinez to see them. Elijah was at school — they hadn’t told him anything, hadn’t wanted to scare him.
“What if they take him away?” Micah whispered.
“They’re not going to take him away.”
“What if his birth parents changed their minds?”
“They signed away their rights.”
“What if —”
Angela Martinez opened her door. “Mr. Ashford. Mr. Cruz. Please come in.”
The news was not as bad as they had feared.
But it was not good.
“Elijah’s birth mother has been released from rehab,” Angela said. “She’s clean. She’s sober. She’s asking for visitation.”
“Visitation?” Julian’s voice was sharp. “She abandoned him. She neglected him. She lost her rights.”
“The court may consider reinstating some contact, if it’s in the child’s best interest.”
“Elijah hasn’t seen her in two years. He doesn’t remember her. He doesn’t ask about her. He’s happy. He’s safe. He’s —”
“Mr. Ashford.” Angela’s voice was gentle but firm. “I understand your concerns. But the law requires us to consider the birth mother’s request. There will be a hearing. A judge will decide.”
“When?”
“Next month.”
Julian stood up. “Thank you for your time.”
He walked out of the office without looking back.
The next month was agony.
Julian couldn’t sleep. Micah couldn’t eat. They snapped at each other over nothing — dishes, laundry, the way Oliver had scratched the couch again. Elijah sensed the tension, though he didn’t understand it. He became clingy, fearful, asking every night if they were going to send him away.
“We’re not sending you away,” Julian said, for the hundredth time.
“Then why are you sad?”
Julian looked at Micah. Micah nodded.
“Elijah,” Julian said, “your birth mother wants to see you.”
Elijah’s face went pale. “No.”
“She’s asking the court for permission. A judge is going to decide.”
“No.” Elijah’s voice was shaking. “I don’t want to see her. I don’t remember her. She hurt me. She let people hurt me.”
Julian pulled him into his arms. “I know, baby. I know.”
“Don’t make me see her.”
“We’re not going to let anyone hurt you. Ever again.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The hearing was on a Tuesday.
The courtroom was the same one where Elijah had been adopted — warm, intimate, with the judge who looked like someone’s grandmother. But this time, there was no joy. Only fear.
Elijah’s birth mother sat at a table across the room. She was thin, pale, her hands shaking. She looked like she hadn’t slept in years.
Julian hated her.
He knew he shouldn’t. He knew she was sick, that addiction was a disease, that she had suffered too. But he looked at her and saw the woman who had hurt his son, and he hated her.
Judge O’Brien presided.
“Ms. Webb,” the judge said, “you are requesting visitation with your biological son, Elijah. Can you tell me why?”
Elijah’s birth mother stood up. Her voice was quiet, trembling.
“Because I love him,” she said. “Because I made mistakes. Terrible mistakes. But I’m clean now. I’m sober. I want to make amends.”
Judge O’Brien nodded. “Mr. Ashford, Mr. Cruz, you may speak.”
Julian stood up. His hands were shaking.
“Your Honor,” he said, “Elijah does not remember this woman. He has not seen her in two years. He has nightmares about the things that happened to him when he was in her care. He is happy now. He is safe. He is loved. And we believe that forcing him to see her would cause him irreparable harm.”
Ms. Webb’s face crumbled. “I’m his mother.”
“You gave birth to him,” Julian said. “You did not mother him.”
The courtroom went silent.
Judge O’Brien looked at Elijah. “Young man, would you like to say something?”
Elijah stood up on his stool. His voice was small but steady.
“I don’t want to see her,” Elijah said. “I have a mom. Her name is Eleanor. She’s my grandma. She makes me cookies and reads me stories and doesn’t hurt me.”
Ms. Webb was crying now.
“I don’t remember you,” Elijah continued. “I don’t want to remember you. I have a family now. A real family. And they love me.”
Judge O’Brien was quiet for a long moment.
“Ms. Webb,” the judge said finally, “I admire your courage. I admire your sobriety. I admire your desire to make amends. But the court’s first priority is the best interest of the child. And in this case, the best interest of the child is to remain with his adoptive parents, without visitation.”
Ms. Webb sobbed.
“However,” Judge O’Brien continued, “I will allow you to write letters. Once a month. To be reviewed by the adoptive parents and the court. If, in time, Elijah expresses a desire to meet you, we can revisit the issue.”
Ms. Webb nodded, wiping her eyes.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” she whispered.
The drive home was quiet.
Elijah sat in the back seat, his red backpack on his lap, his face unreadable. Julian drove. Micah sat in the passenger seat, his hand on Julian’s thigh.
“Are you okay?” Julian asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.
“I don’t know,” Elijah said.
“That’s okay.”
“I don’t have to see her?”
“You don’t have to see her.”
“Ever?”
“Not unless you want to.”
Elijah was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to.”
“Then you won’t.”
Elijah nodded. He looked out the window, watching the trees blur past.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Can we have mac and cheese for dinner?”
Julian smiled — a real smile, the first one in weeks.
“We can have whatever you want for dinner.”
“Mac and cheese,” Elijah said. “And ice cream.”
“And ice cream.”
Elijah nodded again, satisfied, and went back to watching the trees.
That night, after Elijah was asleep, Julian and Micah sat on the couch.
“She’s not going away,” Julian said.
“No.”
“She’s going to write letters. Every month.”
“Yes.”
“One day, Elijah might want to read them.”
“Maybe.”
Julian leaned his head against Micah’s shoulder. “I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of losing him. Of her taking him away. Of all the work we’ve done — all the love we’ve given — not being enough.”
Micah wrapped his arm around Julian. “She can’t take him away. The judge ruled in our favor.”
“Judges can change their minds.”
“So can we.” Micah kissed Julian’s temple. “We’re going to be okay. Elijah is going to be okay. Because we’re going to make sure of it.”
Julian closed his eyes. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“And I love our son.”
“I love our son too.”
“And I hate his birth mother.”
Micah was quiet for a moment. “I know. I hate her too. But maybe — maybe one day we won’t.”
“Maybe.”
They sat in the dark, holding each other, listening to the sounds of their home.each other in the morning light.