While I waited for the authorities to arrive, I tried to keep Ethan calm. He was understandably distraught and wary, but slowly, I managed to coax a small smile from him with promises of food and a safe place to stay. I raided the cabinets, finding some bread and peanut butter, hastily assembling a sandwich. Ethan devoured it hungrily, washing it down with a glass of milk I found in the fridge. It was obvious he hadn’t eaten properly in days.
“Ethan, has this happened before?” I asked gently, trying to keep my voice steady. He fiddled with the edge of his shirt, eyes downcast. “Sometimes,” he whispered. “When I’m bad.”
My heart ached for him. How could anyone, especially someone entrusted with the care of a child, be so cruel? I wanted to reassure him that he wasn’t bad, that none of this was his fault, but I knew actions spoke louder than words. The most important thing now was to ensure his safety and well-being.
