Fifteen.

That’s how many children came through our home in 4.5 years. Not all at once, not all for long, but each one long enough to leave fingerprints on our hearts and echoes in our hallways.

She was nineteen. Still more girl than woman in so many ways. She sat across from me, her baby just down the hall, and tried to look steady. “I have to go,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “To AA. The judge ordered it.” She paused, like the next words might cost her something. “Will you come with me?” It wasn’t what I expected.

She was watching me. We were in an icebreaker meeting and I didn’t notice it at first. I just felt it in that quiet way you feel eyes on you. Her little girl was fussing, that restless, on-the-edge kind of cry that could tip into a full meltdown any second.