Chapter Text
The morning was unusually cold for late summer. The grass was coated lightly with dew as the sun rose over the individual blades, each one casting its own shadow. Mrs. Redeker stood at one of the windows of her grand home, the lace curtains drawn just enough for her to peek outside without being too obvious. She sipped her second cup of tea, though it had long since gone lukewarm.
The street outside was quiet, as always. Their home sat undisturbed at the end of a long drive behind a gate. It was a home her husband had inherited and, though it was far too lavish for her taste, she definitely couldn’t complain.
Setting the cup down on the windowsill, she resumed pacing. Her husband, settled in the armchair by the unlit fireplace with a thick book, looked up at her.
“Grace,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “you’ll wear a path into the floor.”
She glanced at him, then back toward the window. “No, I won’t.”
“You’re pacing,” he said with a knowing smile. “Why don’t you sit down? He’s not arriving on foot, you know. He’ll be here soon.”
“I can’t help it,” she admitted, stopping to fidget with the hem of her cardigan. “I keep thinking about what it must be like for him. To leave everything behind—his name, his home, his friends…just to trust a couple of complete strangers.”
He closed his book, resting it on his lap. “You know this arrangement isn’t permanent. He won’t be here long enough to unpack that baggage, let alone trust us.”
“I know.” Her voice softened, and for a moment, she seemed lost in thought.
The truth is that she didn’t know. The only thing she knew about him was that he was coming from a life of supposed hell. She knew that he was secretly an omega, a fact that no one else in their town, not even her niece, Sophia, could find out, and she knew that he was using the pseudonym, “Preston.” That was it. She also knew better than to expect gratitude, however. Kids like him had walls built high and thick; walls she couldn’t expect to tear down in a matter of a year. But that didn’t stop her from hoping she could at least give him a glimpse of what life could be like on the other side of those walls.
Her husband’s voice broke the silence. “Grace, you’re good at this. You’ve always been good at this. But don’t set yourself up for disappointment.”
What he was referring to was foster care. For years they had fostered children in their home, giving them a place to sleep, find comfort, and then leave… to go back to their own families.
She turned to face him, hands on her hips. “You know why I do this. Everyone deserves a chance to feel safe, to feel wanted, even if it’s only for a little while.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, he gave her a small, understanding nod and returned to his book.
For years, she and her husband had poured their time, energy, and wealth into helping others. Affordable housing projects, soup kitchens, free clinics—if it improved the lives of those in need, the Redekers were involved. But it was the youth programs that had captured the heart of Mrs. Redeker. Troubled teens, kids no one else wanted to bother with—she believed they all deserved a chance to build something better for themselves. Maybe that belief came from her own struggles, her own longing to nurture a child.
Her hand hovered briefly over her abdomen, a phantom ache. Three rounds of uterine cancer had taken more than just her ability to conceive; it had forced her to reimagine what family meant. She’d had her eggs frozen with the hopes of maybe hiring a surrogate so she could finally have the family she’d hoped for, but it just never happened.
Eventually, she decided to take in her niece, Sophia, so that her irresponsible brother could pursue the life of his dreams: a life constantly moving from place to place with no stable home to return to. That, however, did little to quench her unbearable thirst to experience motherhood, as Sophia had made it blatantly clear that she would still only ever see her as her aunt.
A low hum in the distance caught her attention, and her heart jumped. She pressed her hand against the cool glass, leaning in as the dark SUV rounded the corner into their street.
She turned quickly, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug in her rush to the door. “He’s here!”
Her husband didn’t move, except to turn a page. “Remember what I said. Let them come on their own. You’ll catch a chill standing by the door.”
But she was already slipping on her shoes, her excitement overriding her common sense.
She stood on the front steps, shivering as the cold bit through her sweater. The SUV rolled to a stop in the turnaround driveway, and the driver’s side door opened. A tall man in a crisp gray suit stepped out, adjusting his tie against the wind.
“Agent Hart!” she called, waving eagerly.
The agent smiled politely as he approached. “Mrs. Redeker. Good morning.”
Mrs. Redeker and Agent Hart had long been affiliated. Before she retired, she used to work with him in Washington DC for the FBI. She didn’t do anything intense; she was a special agent behind the scenes working specifically in cases that involved children. The two knew each other very well after years of cases together which is exactly how and why she was presented with this unique opportunity.
“Where—?” she asked, scanning the SUV expectantly.
Agent Hart’s smile faded slightly, and he raised a hand. “There’s been a delay—”
“A delay?” Mrs. Redeker asked, disappointment obvious in her voice. Two more agents stepped out of the vehicle, their faces void of emotion.
“I’m afraid so.” He continued. “I know you know, Redeker. I know you understand… just how hard it is to give an identity to a literal ghost .”
Her gaze sunk to the gravel on the ground as she tried not to get emotional.
“Aside from giving him a social security number, a birth certificate, all that—we’ve gotta give him a history . We’ve gotta make him seem… real. I know you understand how long that process can take, especially when he’s still got enemies out there.”
“I know, I know.” She sighed.
She sincerely was excited. This would be their last one; their last child to take in. Only he wasn’t a child; he was technically 18, but still 17 when he entered the system. Even still, Mrs. Redeker considered him a child nonetheless.
“When do you think he’ll—”
“Hopefully by next Monday, but don’t get your hopes up.” He said, flatly. She knew he couldn’t risk giving her definites, so she tried not to take it personally. “I’ll call you if anything changes, okay?”
“Okay.” She said, reaching her hand out for him. He took it carefully, the two shaking hands.
“Take care of yourself, Grace.”
“You too… Rodney.”
As she went back inside, she saw her husband standing by the door.
“Well?”
“There’s been a delay.” She said flatly, kicking off her shoes and walking upstairs alone.