My name is Claire. I’m twenty-eight, American, and I grew up in the foster system. By age eight, I’d already moved through countless homes, learning not to get attached—until I met Noah at the orphanage. He was nine, quiet, and in a wheelchair. From the start, we chose each other.
We aged out together at eighteen, moving into a tiny, run-down apartment while attending community college. Over time, our friendship became love—quiet, unceremonious, but steady. After graduation, Noah proposed while I cooked pasta. Our wedding was small, imperfect, perfect.
The morning after, a man named Thomas arrived. He explained that Noah had unknowingly performed a small act of kindness years ago—helping a man named Harold Peters with groceries when he fell. Harold, who had no family, left his house, savings, and belongings to Noah, recognizing his quiet generosity.
Weeks later, we explored the house—a real home for the first time. Noah whispered, “I don’t know how to live somewhere that can’t disappear.” I told him, “We’ll learn. We always do.”
For the first time, someone saw us. And for the first time, something stayed.