Page 61 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

So I guess I was better than nothing.

The group home was always bustling with noise—kids shouting, laughing, crying—chaos everywhere. But Rome? He was different. Every time I walked through the door, I’d find him in the same spot, in the corner of the room, his tiny body folded up into itself, head down, as if he was trying to disappear.

I knew that feeling.

The sponsors of the place kept it clean, but there was still a worn-down look to it. The walls were painted bright yellow, chipped in places where tiny hands had pulled at the cracks. Toys were scattered around, some new, others with pieces missing. The air always smelled faintly of crayons and disinfectant. There was a warmth to it, a sense of care, but there was also an underlying heaviness, the weight of too many kids with too many stories not many people wanted to hear.

The first time I’d seen Rome, something had pulled me toward him. He was just sitting there, head tucked down, not speaking, not even looking at anyone. His pale blond hair fell over his face, hiding those big, sad eyes I knew were there. He was a visible representation of how I’d felt growing up—the raw loneliness, that silence that came from losing too much too soon.

Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a box of crayons and a coloring book that I had brought with me. He didn't move as I made my way over, sitting down next to him on the floor. He just stayed curled up like I wasn't even there.

“Hey, Rome,” I said softly, grabbing a crayon, careful not to push him. “Want to color with me?”

At first, he didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at me. But I was used to that. I picked a page and started coloring, letting the quiet stretch between us. I wasn’t here to force him out of his shell. I knew that wouldn’t work. You couldn’t rush these things. I had to wait for him to come to me.

Minutes passed in silence; the only sound was the soft scratch of crayon across paper. I kept coloring, filling in the lines with bright blues and yellows. Slowly, his head lifted, just a fraction, his eyes peeking through his hair.

Rome didn’t say anything, but he reached out and grabbed an orange crayon.

I smiled, keeping my gaze on the coloring book. “That’s a good color. There’s far too much blue and yellow on this page.”

He gave a small nod, and I felt like crying, just like I did every time when he began to open up.

We colored for a while, his small hand moving carefully over the paper. Still silent, but he wastherewith me, and that was something.

After a few pages, he dropped his crayon, taking a deep breath before he asked, “How long did it take for you not to miss your mom anymore?”

I fumbled with the crayon in my hand, caught off guard at his question, and that he’d remembered me telling him when I’d first met him that my mom had died too.

One of the employees had told me the first day I’d come that Rome had been in a car crash two years ago. His parents had both died, but he had survived. He’d been badly abused at the foster home he was put into, though, and he’d been at this place ever since while they tried to help him.

Rome was still staring at the coloring book, but his hand had stilled while he waited for an answer.

The answer was complicated, and I tried to think about how I could explain it to a six-year-old.

“I don’t think you ever stop missing your mom,” I said softly, wishing I had a different answer for him.

But it was the truth.

Even though I’d watched my mother fade away with her addiction…and then cancer…I still didn’t stop missing her. Or at least the idea of her. I think no matter how awful your parents are, every child carries that dream of who they wish their parents could be. Sometimes missing them…actually means missing that dream.

If I could have figured out a way to not miss my mother, I would have done it by now, though.

Rome peeked up at me through the strands of hair that had fallen into his face. “So I’m always going to be sad?” he asked miserably, tears starting to gather in his eyes.

I wanted to cry just looking at him. If I knew he wouldn’t freak out, I would have pulled him into my arms. Rome needed a big hug.

“Not always. It will just be little moments when you’re doing something and you wish she was there,” I whispered to him, unable to stop myself from at least reaching over and touching his hand. “But most of the time, you’ll be really happy. Because you have such a good life. And because she would want you to be.”

It felt like I was lying to him, but Iwantedit to be true. It hadn’t been true for me, but maybe it could be for him.

“You really think so?” he whispered, his voice small, fragile.

I nodded, my heart aching at the hope in his voice. “Yeah, Rome. I do.”

He stayed quiet for a moment, his fingers gripping the crayon a little tighter. Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “I hope you’re right.”

My chest tightened, and I swallowed hard, unable to say anything else because my voice was too choked up.

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