1 The Porters took me away from St. Jude’s Foster Home. During the adoption process, Mrs. Porter made it brutally clear that she actually preferred the other boy. His name was Oliver. He was outgoing, bubbly, and full of natural talent. “Arthur, I just can’t get that little boy’s smile out of my head. Maybe we should go with Oliver instead.” Mrs. Porter bit her lip, completely torn, and looked to her husband for guidance. Mr. Porter patted her hand with an indulgent smile. “A loud, energetic kid like that will never have trouble finding a home. Besides, a noisy boy will just exhaust you. This one is much quieter.” “I suppose you’re right.” And so, accompanied by Mrs. Porter’s conflicted sighs, I was brought to their estate. I stayed with the Porter family for six months. But Mrs. Porter couldn’t let go of her obsession with Oliver. Eventually, she and her husband agreed to swap me out. “Hugo, sweetheart, Mommy just can’t forget the disappointed look in Oliver’s eyes when we left him behind. You’re such a mature, understanding boy. You can forgive me, right?” She was right. I had always been understanding. So, I was boxed up and shipped right back to the foster home. The day they made the exchange, Oliver practically threw himself into Mrs. Porter’s arms, refusing to let go. His bright, infectious laugh seemed to melt all her guilt away. Then, he looked over her shoulder at me. When none of the adults were watching, he smirked and mouthed the words. “Nobody wants a reject. You lose again.” Before she drove away, Mrs. Porter promised she would find time to visit me. I waited like a good boy. I sat by the window at the foster home for three whole months. She never came once. But three months later, Mr. Porter did come. He asked if I would be willing to go live with a friend of his. His friend’s last name was Stone. The Stones had a flawless marriage, but Mrs. Stone was unable to have children. They had always desperately wanted a son. Mr. Stone had seen me once at the Porter estate. When he went home, he showed my photo to his wife. He told her that my eyes looked exactly like hers. The foster home had strict regulations. If a child was returned within a year of adoption, they couldn’t be placed with a new family for a mandatory three-month cooling-off period. The Stones counted down the days. The very morning the restriction lifted, they dragged Mr. Porter along to officially ask for my consent. “Your name is Hugo, isn’t it?” Mrs. Stone’s voice was soft, like velvet. The way she looked at me was overflowing with a fragile, desperate kind of tenderness. She knelt down to my eye level. “Would you like to come home with me and be my one and only son?” I wanted to. When you’re a kid drifting like dead leaves in the wind, you’ll crawl toward even the faintest flicker of warmth. Let alone the promise of a real family. I placed my small hand into Mrs. Stone’s warm, soft palm. “I want to,” I whispered. “Oh, Hugo, you have no idea how happy you’ve made me!” Mrs. Stone pulled me into a fierce, crushing hug. She was laughing and crying at the same time, looking exactly like a kid waking up to snow on Christmas morning. In that moment, I knew she genuinely wanted me. As we walked out of the foster home, Mr. Porter turned to the Stones with a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, if my wife hadn’t been so dead set on Oliver, I really would have hated to let little Hugo go!” Hated to let me go, yet he still threw me away. The Porter family was already a closed chapter in my life. They were the first people I had ever dared to trust. The first I ever tried to rely on. And the outcome had been humiliating. A sudden sting of tears blurred my vision. I quickly ducked my head, pretending to brush dust off my jacket. A large, warm hand rested on the top of my head and gently ruffled my hair. “Arthur, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say things like that in front of the boy anymore,” Mr. Stone said smoothly. “Family is about timing and connection. You made your choice. Let’s just wish each other well and leave it at that.” Dignified. Unshakable. That was my first impression of Richard Stone. It suddenly hit me. Back at the Porter house, I spent every waking second walking on eggshells. I was always terrified of breathing too loudly. Mrs. Porter constantly complained that I was too stiff, too unrefined to be shown off to her socialite friends. I never knew what to do to make them smile. Whenever I tried my hardest, it always backfired and made things worse. So I had just shrunk into myself, trying to take up as little space as possible. But right now, standing on the steps of the foster home, the answer finally clicked. When people don’t truly want you, nothing you do will ever be right. I hesitated for a second before reaching out to gently tug on the hem of Mr. Stone’s coat, silently thanking him for protecting my feelings. He crouched down, his tailored suit completely ignoring the dirt on the pavement. “Hugo,” he said quietly. “If you ever hear something you don’t want to hear, you can just cover your ears. You’re a kid. If you want to yell back at them, that’s perfectly fine too.” In that single heartbeat, everything around me seemed to light up. I finally understood what the older kids meant when they whispered in the dark. Being loved gives you a spine. My first time stepping into the Stone Estate was overwhelming. The staff walking across the manicured lawns all bowed their heads respectfully, greeting me as Master Hugo. Mrs. Stone excitedly dragged me from room to room. She had boundless energy, acting as though she could sprint a marathon in heels and never break a sweat. But that manic joy didn’t clash with her innate elegance. Whenever she spoke to me, her voice dropped to a gentle, comforting murmur. Martha, the head housekeeper, came by to ask about the dinner menu. Mrs. Stone started checking boxes on an iPad while simultaneously bombarding me with questions. “What does Hugo like to eat? Does he have any allergies? Oh, make sure he gets an extra glass of warm milk after dinner, he’s far too skinny…” Martha caught my eye. We shared a secret little smile, silently agreeing to just let her ramble. A full five minutes later, Mrs. Stone finally realized she was the only one talking. She gasped in mock outrage. “Hugo! How could you? Teaming up with Martha to make fun of your poor mother?” It wasn’t making fun of her. It was adorable. “Ma’am, Master Hugo just got here,” Martha said with a fond chuckle. “Adjusting to the estate will take time. We have plenty of days to figure out what he loves.” Mrs. Stone let out a long breath, clutching the iPad to her chest. “I thought I was hiding my nerves so well. I guess I am rushing things.” She looked down at me, her eyes filled with sudden panic. “Hugo, I’m not overwhelming you, am I?” I shook my head firmly. “No.” “Thank God.” The estate was massive. By the time we had toured half of the east wing, it was time for dinner. At the dining table, Mr. Stone took his phone out, switched it to airplane mode, and placed it face down. Then he picked up the serving tongs and personally plated food for his wife and me. Mrs. Stone took a bite of her roast and smiled. “After dinner, I’m taking you upstairs to pick your bedroom. I actually called Victoria Porter to ask what style you preferred. She said you didn’t care either way. Is it that you really don’t know what you like, or are you just too polite to ask?” I lowered my eyes to my plate. I truly didn’t know what I liked. Growing up in the system meant choices were a luxury I couldn’t afford. Sometimes, ten of us shared a single box of colored pencils. Before I could even figure out which shade of green I was holding, someone else had already snatched it out of my hand. When I moved in with the Porters, Mr. Porter’s favorite color was navy blue. Mrs. Porter blindly assumed all boys must love blue, so every piece of clothing, every bedsheet, every toothbrush I owned was navy. I stared at the steam rising from my bowl, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know what my style is.” The air in the dining room froze for a few seconds. Mr. Stone was the first to break the silence. “It’s completely normal not to know.” His voice was steady and grounding. “You’re just a kid. You haven’t even figured out how the world works yet. How could anyone expect you to have your tastes locked down?” No adult had ever spoken to me like that. I jerked my head up, staring at him in pure shock. Wasn’t everyone supposed to know exactly who they were from the start? The teachers at the foster home, and even Mrs. Porter, always preached the same tired line. “You are the only person in the world who truly knows yourself.” Seeing my stunned expression, Mr. Stone let out a low chuckle. “My wife is thirty-two years old, and she still can’t decide if cotton or silk pajamas help her sleep better. It’s not a crime to be undecided.” “You never have to apologize for things you aren’t sure about.” After dinner, Mr. Porter called. Mr. Stone held the phone to his ear, exchanged a few brief sentences, and then glanced over at me. Catching his subtle look, Mrs. Stone leaned in and asked softly, “Do you want to see the Porters?” Silence swallowed me whole. Whenever I faced the Porter family, all I felt was bone-deep inadequacy. Especially at their high-society dinners. The gap between me and the other wealthy kids my age was a massive, gaping canyon. Mr. Porter would constantly pull me aside, making passive-aggressive comments about how I needed to catch up before I humiliated him. During those six months, my days were packed with an endless rotation of tutors. Academic cram schools. Etiquette coaches. Dining protocol instructors. It was relentless. Suffocating. The Porters would parade their wealthy friends through the house to inspect my progress, treating me like a prized show dog they were training for a ribbon. The scrutiny. The sheer terror of making a mistake. When they finally dumped me back at the foster home, my heart had shattered, but beneath the grief was a massive, shameful wave of relief. Did I want to see them? My fingers instantly curled into fists, gripping the fabric of my trousers. The Porters arrived late in the evening, parading Oliver through the front doors. Oliver looked healthier, his skin glowing and pampered. He was wearing a ridiculously expensive tailored blue suit, strutting into the foyer like he owned the place. “Long time no see, Hugo!” He lunged forward and threw his arms around me, acting like we were long-lost blood brothers. I gave him a stiff, polite pat on the back, then immediately took a half-step backward, putting cold air between us. “Hugo, I’ve made so many new friends here! All the girls in my class just adore me.” Oliver grabbed my wrist and shook it enthusiastically, practically vibrating with smugness. “Oliver really is a charmer. Everyone says he gets his shining personality from me,” Mrs. Porter chimed in, practically glowing with pride. “When we first brought him home, Arthur was so worried that Oliver’s energy would drain me. But now? He makes Arthur laugh until his stomach hurts every single day.” “He’s a handful, sure, but raising kids is supposed to be tiring. We’re loving every second of it.” Mr. Porter took over the conversation, his eyes glued to Oliver with sickening adoration. I stood perfectly still, watching them. A bitter taste flooded the back of my throat, thick and metallic. Once, during my time with them, I had scored the highest grade in my class. It happened to be the night of Mrs. Porter’s birthday gala. My homeroom teacher was on the guest list and praised my grades right in front of them. What did Mr. Porter say then? “Children are arrogant by nature. Don’t praise him in public, or he’ll forget where he came from and get a swollen head.” He had dressed down my teacher in front of fifty wealthy guests. The teacher had awkwardly stared at his shoes, humiliated. Mrs. Porter had swirled her red wine, barely sparing the teacher a glance before turning her cold eyes on me. “Hugo, you need to reflect on this. Why were you only first in your class? You and the kid who ranked first in the entire grade are sitting in the exact same building. The gap between you two is frankly embarrassing.” After that night, my homeroom teacher never gave me a second glance. Seeing the Porters dote on Oliver now, the truth was blindingly obvious. They were fully capable of unconditional love. They just didn’t want to love me. After the Porters finally left, Mrs. Stone exploded in the hallway. She was furious because Mr. Stone had held her arm, stopping her from tearing into them while they were bragging. Mr. Stone kept his voice calm and steady. “Eleanor, these are realities Hugo has to face eventually. We can’t shield him from every ugly truth. Letting him see exactly who they are right now will help him cut ties and start fresh.” “Don’t you dare use your corporate psychological warfare on my boy!” Refusing to accept his logic, she grabbed my hand and stomped up the grand staircase. “Darling, Hugo is a boy. He’s much stronger than you give him credit for. We can’t raise him in a greenhouse,” Mr. Stone called out, trailing behind us. His tone was exasperated but entirely fond. “Hugo is my son. Nobody gets to bully him under the pathetic disguise of ‘tough love’.” Mrs. Stone was still grumbling under her breath as she walked me down the hall to choose my room. She was genuinely livid. Every time Mr. Stone tried to reach for her hand, she slapped his fingers away. Left with no other option, Mr. Stone caught my eye behind her back, rubbed my head, and pressed his palms together in a silent plea for help. “Please don’t be mad,” I said, stopping in the middle of the hallway. I pulled gently on Mrs. Stone’s sleeve and looked right into her eyes. “I didn’t feel bullied.” The fight instantly drained out of her. Tears spilled over her lower lashes. She dropped to her knees right there on the Persian rug and pulled me close. “Hugo, I’ve never been a mother before, but I know what it’s like to be a child. Whenever anything went wrong, my parents stood like a brick wall between me and the rest of the world. You are my son. Anyone or anything that tries to make you sad has to go through me first.” Watching her cry over me made my own nose sting. No one had ever said those words to me. It felt like all I had to do was wear the title of her son, and I suddenly became worthy of being unconditionally loved. “I was too rational. My wife is completely right. Hugo is our son, and nobody gets to make him feel small.” Mr. Stone crouched down beside us, wrapping his massive arms around both of us. His chest felt like a fortress. Solid. Impenetrable. “We are a family now,” he murmured against my hair. “And we will always stand fiercely on your side.” I swallowed hard, fighting back the lump in my throat. I reached out and wiped a stray tear from Mrs. Stone’s cheek. “Thank you,” I said, meaning it with every fiber of my being. Thank you for letting me know what love feels like. The Stone family had prepared two separate bedrooms for me. One was styled with classic, dark-wood elegance. The other was ultra-modern and sleek. Ironically, the designs didn’t match their personalities. Mrs. Stone, the artist, had designed the sleek modern one. Mr. Stone, the ruthless CEO, had designed the warm, classic one. I stood in the doorway, quietly taking in the spaces. “Hugo, these two rooms are just our welcoming gifts. You can choose the classic, or the modern. But we also cleared out the massive suite at the end of the hall downstairs. Whenever you finally figure out exactly what your style is, you can gut it and build it from the ground up.” Mrs. Stone rested a hand on my shoulder. “You never have to twist yourself into knots to fit someone else’s mold. Not even ours.” I stared at her, my vision going dangerously blurry. They weren’t trying to prune me like a bonsai tree to fit their living room aesthetic. They were just handing me a patch of rich soil and telling me to grow however I wanted. “Then… can I sleep in this one for now?” I took a deep breath and stepped into the warm, classic room. Mrs. Stone’s face lit up instantly, her eyes sparkling like crushed diamonds. “Absolutely. And if you get bored of it next week, we switch. In this house, you always have choices.” The Stones didn’t constantly shower me with theatrical praises or smothering kisses. But the quiet, unshakeable tolerance that flowed through the very air of their home was more powerful than any grand gesture. During my time with the Porters, I had seen countless high-society couples who smiled for the cameras but despised each other in private. Even the Porters themselves, famous in the tabloids for their “perfect” marriage, would tear each other to shreds over the pettiest things. Mrs. Porter was obsessed with pastel pink. She forced Mr. Porter to paint his private home office pink. She demanded he wear pink silk ties to work every single day. Mr. Porter would put the tie on before walking out the front door, and rip it off the second he got into his Bentley. One afternoon, she showed up at his corporate headquarters unannounced to bring him lunch. When she saw he wasn’t wearing the tie, she threw a screaming fit in the middle of the lobby, sobbing to the board members that he didn’t love her anymore. Mr. Porter had finally snapped, yelling, “There has to be a limit to your psychotic delusions!” I used to think that adult marriage was just an endless endurance test. That love meant beating the other person down until they turned into exactly what you wanted. But looking at the Stones, I realized love could be entirely different. After settling in, they didn’t immediately rush to throw me into a private prep school. Mrs. Stone, a renowned painter, dragged me to gallery openings and private art salons. No matter how many millions Mr. Stone was negotiating, he always cleared his weekends to walk through the botanical gardens with us. One afternoon in the park, I heard the haunting melody of a violin. I stopped walking and stared at the street performer for a long time. The very next morning, Mrs. Stone drove me to a high-end strings shop downtown. An elderly woman, Mrs. Higgins, happened to be there. She taught me how to grip the bow. After listening to me drag out a few shaky notes, she turned to Mrs. Stone. “The boy has an ear for it. I’d be willing to take him on as a student.” Mrs. Stone didn’t immediately pull out her black card. She knelt down and looked me in the eye. “Hugo. Do you want to learn?” I didn’t answer right away. I had learned the piano at the Porter house. Mrs. Porter had bragged to her country club friends that I would pass the advanced conservatory exams within six months. To make that happen, she stood over my shoulder with a metronome. Eight hours a day. I practiced until my fingers cramped and violently shook. Just looking at black and white keys made my stomach turn. What Mrs. Porter didn’t know was that the advanced exams were only held twice a year, and beginners weren’t allowed to skip straight to the top tier on their first try. When she found out she couldn’t show off her prodigy child at her next luncheon, she felt utterly humiliated. That was the day she decided to go back to the orphanage and exchange me. “I want to learn,” I whispered softly. “But I don’t want to take any exams. Is that okay?”
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