When they dropped me off at the last orphanage, I had one rule: don’t get attached.
Then I met Noah.
He was nine years old, thin, a little too serious for a child.
The other children weren’t cruel; they just didn’t know what to do with him.
One afternoon, I walked past him.
From that moment on, we were a part of each other’s lives.
He looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and said, “You’re new.”
“Yes,” I replied. “I’m Claire.”
He nodded once. “Noah.”
We grew up together.
“If you get adopted, I’ll take your headphones.”
Every time a child left with a suitcase or a garbage bag, we went through our stupid little ritual.
“If you get adopted, I’ll take your headphones.”
We grew old together.
At 18, they ushered us into an office and said, “Sign here. You’re adults now.”
We walked out together with our belongings in plastic bags.
There was no party, no cake, no “we’re proud of you.”
We walked out together with our belongings in plastic bags.
On the sidewalk, Noah said, “At least no one can tell us where to go anymore.”
We enrolled at the public university.
We found a small apartment.
We shared a second-hand laptop and took every job we could get.
He did remote IT support; I worked in a café.
Our friendship blossomed into love.
We furnished the place with what we could.
We had three plates, a good saucepan, and a sofa.
Our friendship turned into love.
We’d put on a movie, then we’d fall asleep, his hand resting on my knee.
“I thought it was just me.”
One evening, I said, “We’re kind of already together, aren’t we?”
“Oh, good,” he said. “I thought it was just me.”
We started making it official.
“Two orphans with papers.”
We graduated.
When the diplomas finally arrived in the mail, we placed them on the kitchen counter.
“Look at us,” Noah said. “Two orphans fighting for their future.”
A year later, he proposed.
We graduated.
He came into the kitchen while I was making pasta, placed a tiny ring box next to the sauce, and said, “Ready to spend the rest of your life with me?”
Our wedding was simple, but perfect.
Friends from college and two members of the home staff who genuinely cared about us were our guests.
I wore a simple dress; he wore a navy suit.
We said our vows, signed the papers, and returned to our small apartment.
We were exhausted and happy.
The next morning, there was a knock at the door.
A man in a dark coat was standing there.
I put on a hoodie and opened the door.
A man in a dark coat was standing there.
“I’ve been trying to find your husband for a long time.”
“Hello,” he said. “Are you Claire?”
I nodded slowly.
“My name is Thomas,” he said. “I know we don’t know each other, but I’ve been trying to find your husband for a long time.”
My chest tightened.
“There’s something you don’t know about your husband.”
“Why?” I asked.
“There’s something you don’t know about your husband,” he said.
He held out a thick envelope.
“I’m here because of a man named Harold Peters.”
“Claire?” Noah blurted out.
Thomas’s face softened when he saw him.
“Hello, Noah,” he said. “I’m here because of a man named Harold Peters.”
“But I don’t know any Harold.”
So we let Thomas in.
Thomas nodded toward the envelope.
“He knew you. May I come in?”
So we let Thomas in.
Thomas placed the envelope on the coffee table.
He sat down in our chair.
Noah and I took the couch.
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