It was almost ten.
I was sitting in what I think was a CPS office. Or a county building. Something like that. Everything was beige. Beige walls, beige hard chairs that were somehow too hard and too soft at the same time, that weird government-building quiet where the air conditioner is louder than the people.
The social worker was a few feet away, standing near a desk with her phone pressed to her ear. She'd been calling foster homes for what felt like forever. She had this little notebook and she kept saying the same thing.
"Hi, this is Jen from the county... I have a fourteen-year-old... no, tonight..."
Every once in a while she'd look over at me while she talked, then turn away quick and lower her voice like I wasn't supposed to hear.
I sat there with my backpack between my feet, listening to half the conversation and trying to guess where I was going to end up. My hands were wrapped around one backpack strap, twisting it tighter and tighter around my fingers until my fingertips went white.
I started rocking a little without meaning to. Forward, back. Forward, back. The chair squeaked a tiny bit every time.
I stared at the same spot on the floor between my shoes. There was a tiny dark chip in one of the tiles, like someone dropped something heavy there. I focused on that instead of thinking about home, because thinking about home made my throat close up.
She noticed me rocking. She lowered the phone a little.
"You doing okay over there?"
I stopped immediately, like I'd been caught doing something wrong. My face got hot.
"Yeah."
She gave me that look adults give you when they know you're lying but don't want to call you a liar in an office.
I looked down and started picking at a loose thread near my backpack zipper. The blue one with the broken front zipper. I'd been picking at that same thread for months and it was somehow still hanging on.
She didn't push. She just nodded once and went back to the call, but I noticed she kept checking on me every few seconds after that. Quick little glances.
After what felt like a year, she finally hung up. She stood there for a second with the phone still in her hand, looking tired. Like really tired, the kind of tired that goes behind your eyes.
Then she walked over and sat in the chair across from me. It creaked too.
"I found somewhere for you to stay tonight."
I stopped picking at the thread.
"Where?"
"It's a foster home about twenty minutes from here. North side."
I looked down at the floor again. That chip in the tile.
"Is it just me?"
She hesitated for a half second. That's all it took for my stomach to twist.
"No. There are other kids there too."
I didn't know if that was supposed to make me feel better or worse. My brain went to like, a big house full of bunk beds and yelling.
"It's a mixed-gender foster home," she said. "The woman who runs it seems very sweet. She has one room available."
I looked at her.
"One room?"
She nodded. "Yeah. You'd have your own room."
That part sounded better. My own door. My own wall.
Then she added, quieter, "I told her you're transgender, and she was very polite about it."
I sat up a little.
"Really?"
"Really. She said that's not an issue."
For the first time all night, I felt a tiny bit of air come back into my chest. Like maybe I hadn't just traded one bad place for a worse one.
Maybe I got lucky.
The social worker stood up and picked up her bag, that big tote with papers sticking out of it.
"We can head over now."
I looked at the clock on the wall. It said 10:14 and the second hand was ticking loud.
"Tonight?"
She gave me a small smile that was actually kind of sad.
"Yeah. Tonight."
I stood up and pulled my backpack over one shoulder. My legs felt weird and buzzy from sitting so long, pins and needles, and for a second I just stood there rocking on my heels trying to get them to wake up.
The drive was quiet. Not awkward quiet, just tired quiet. I watched houses pass by through the window, porch lights and TVs glowing in windows, and tried to guess which one would be mine for the night. Or for a few nights. Or however long temporary was supposed to mean. Nobody tells you what temporary means.
Eventually we turned onto a quieter street. Trees over the road. No streetlights for a stretch.
The foster home was bigger than I expected. Not mansion big, but big enough that I immediately understood how it could have seven bedrooms. Two stories, light yellow siding, big porch. There were lights on downstairs and one light on upstairs, yellow and warm.
The porch looked clean. Almost too clean. Like someone had swept it that day and lined up the shoes by the door.
A woman opened the door before we even knocked. She must have been watching through the window.
She had this big smile on her face. Teeth and everything.
"You must be Lily."
I froze for half a second. My brain did that little skip it does every time someone gets it right on the first try.
Then I nodded. "Yeah."
"Well, come in. You must be exhausted."
I was so glad she called me Lily.
She stepped aside and let us in.
The house smelled like cinnamon and something warm from the kitchen, like fake apple pie candles and real laundry at the same time. There were family pictures on the walls, but none of them matched. Different kids, different years, different haircuts, different school photos. A wall of kids who had been there before me.
"You can call me Mrs. Carter," she said. "Everybody does."
The social worker smiled at me. "See? You're already doing okay."
I wasn't sure about that, but I nodded anyway because I wanted it to be true.
Mrs. Carter led us into the living room. Two couches, a big chair by the window, and a basket full of blankets folded so perfectly they looked like nobody had ever used them. Like display blankets.
"Would you like something to drink?" she asked me.
"Water is fine."
"Of course."
She went into the kitchen and came back with a glass. No ice. Tap water warm around the edges.
"Thank you," I said.
"You're very welcome, Lily."
I noticed the way the social worker smiled when Mrs. Carter said my name. Like she was relieved too. Like okay, this is going to be okay.
Mrs. Carter sat across from us, hands folded on her knees.
"So," she said, "I hear you've had a rough night."
I looked down at the glass in my hands. I could see my fingerprints on it.
"Yeah."
"Well, you don't have to worry about any of that tonight. You can settle in, get some sleep, and we'll figure things out tomorrow."
The social worker nodded. "She's had a long day."
"I can imagine."
Mrs. Carter looked at me again.
"And you'll have your own room. Room Seven."
I glanced toward the hallway. It was dark down there. Doors.
"Why is it called Room Seven?"
She laughed softly, like I was cute for asking.
"Because it's the seventh bedroom."
"Oh." That made sense.
The three of us talked for a while after that. Mostly the adults. Mrs. Carter asked about school, what I liked to eat, whether I had any allergies, what time I usually went to bed. Checklist questions. She asked if I liked animals.
I told her I did.
She asked if I had siblings.
I told her no.
Then she looked at the social worker, not at me, and said it a little too casually.
"And you said Lily is transgender?"
I tensed up immediately. My shoulders went up to my ears. The water glass got tighter in my hands.
The social worker noticed and nodded. "Yes."
Mrs. Carter looked back at me and smiled again, big.
"That won't be a problem here."
I stared at her.
"Really?"
"Really." She kept smiling. "I have boys here. I have girls here. I care about whether people follow the house rules. That's what matters."
That sounded reasonable. Almost comforting. Like she was being fair.
For a little while, I started to think maybe I really had gotten lucky. Maybe the worst part was over.
The social worker eventually checked the time on her phone.
"I should get going."
My stomach dropped to the floor. Like actually dropped. I hadn't expected that to hit so hard.
Not really. I knew she wasn't staying, obviously. I knew that. But knowing something and watching it happen are different.
She stood up. Mrs. Carter stood too. I stayed on the couch with my glass.
The social worker looked at me. "You okay?"
I nodded too fast. "Yeah."
She gave me that same look from the office. The one that said I was lying but she wasn't going to embarrass me.
She walked over and crouched down a little so we were closer to eye level. Her knees cracked.
"I'm going to check in with you, okay?"
"When?"
"Soon."
I looked at her. "How soon?"
She smiled a little. "Soon enough that you'll probably think I'm annoying."
That made me laugh. Just a tiny one, out my nose.
She held out her hand to shake. I looked at it. Then I hugged her instead. I didn't plan to. It just happened.
She froze for half a second, then hugged me back. She smelled like coffee and car air freshener.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"For what?"
I didn't know how to explain it. For calling me Lily. For listening. For getting me out of that kitchen. For not looking at me like I was something broken that needed to be fixed.
"For helping me."
She pulled back.
"You did a lot of the hard part yourself."
I didn't really believe that.
She stood up. "If you need anything, tell Mrs. Carter."
Mrs. Carter smiled. "I'll take good care of her."
The social worker looked at me one more time. "Get some sleep."
"I'll try."
"Good night, Lily."
"Good night."
She walked to the door. I followed her. I don't know why. Maybe I wanted to make sure she didn't leave too fast.
She opened the door, cold air coming in again, stepped outside, then turned back.
"You're going to be okay."
I nodded.
She gave me one last smile. Then she walked down the steps. Her shoes were loud on the wood.
I stood in the doorway watching until she got into her car. The headlights came on and lit up the whole porch. She pulled away. I kept watching until the red taillights disappeared at the end of the street.
Mrs. Carter stood behind me.
For a few seconds, she didn't say anything. I could hear the clock ticking in the living room.
Then she reached around me and shut the door.
The lock clicked. Loud.
Her smile disappeared.
Not slowly. Not fading. It was just gone. Like someone flipped a switch.
I turned around.
She looked completely different without it. Tired. Annoyed. Cold. The honey voice was gone.
"All right," she said. Her voice was flat now. No sweetness.
"Let's get one thing straight."
I didn't move. My backpack felt really heavy suddenly.
"This is my house."
I stared at her.
She folded her arms, and her shirt pulled tight.
"You follow my rules. You do what you're told. You don't cause scenes, and you do not make trouble for me."
My stomach started twisting again, worse than before.
I looked toward the door. Then back at her.
"What?"
She tilted her head, like I was stupid.
"You heard me."
And just like that, I knew.
The nice woman the social worker had met was gone. And I had no idea who I was actually standing with in that hallway.
Mrs. Carter folded her arms. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows.
"First rule: you do what I say the first time."
I stayed near the door with my back almost touching it. I could still feel the cold coming off the wood.
"Okay."
"Second rule: no wandering around the house after bedtime. If you need the bathroom, use it and go straight back to your room."
I nodded quick.
"Third rule: no going into anybody else's bedroom unless I say you can."
That one sounded normal enough. Almost like a real foster house rule.
"Fourth rule: chores. Everybody here has them. You'll get yours tomorrow."
She started walking toward the hallway, then stopped and looked back at me over her shoulder. That look made my stomach pull tight.
"And one more thing," Mrs. Carter said. "You being transgender is not a problem here. But it also does not make you special."
I frowned. My hands were sweating around my backpack strap.
"What?"
"You heard me. I will call you Lily. You can wear what you want. Nobody here is going to bother you about being a girl. But you still do chores. You still follow bedtime. You still ask before going into someone else's room. You still clean up after yourself."
She folded her arms tighter and her shirt pulled.
She said it completely differently now than she had ten minutes ago when the social worker was standing right beside her. Before it was polite, sweet even. Now it was flat. Like she was reading a chore list.
My whole body went still. Not froze, like still still. The air went weird.
"Being transgender isn't a superpower. It doesn't get you out of the rules."
I tightened my grip on my backpack strap until my knuckles hurt.
"I just want people to treat me like a girl."
Mrs. Carter looked at me for a long second. Not up and down. Just at me. Like she was deciding how much to say.
"You are here because you need somewhere to live. That is what I am providing. A roof, a bed, food. That's what foster care is."
"That doesn't really answer -"
Her eyes narrowed. Fast.
"Do not talk back to me."
I stopped. Mouth closed. My face got hot.
She continued, voice lower, that flat no-nonsense voice.
"You will follow the same rules as everybody else. You will not start arguments, and you will not expect the other kids to change everything they do just because you're here. You do your part, you keep your room clean, you don't cause drama."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good," she said. "Then we understand each other."
She turned toward the stairs. Then stopped again.
"Room Seven is upstairs. End of the hall."

I picked up my backpack. The broken zipper rattled. And I started toward the stairs, trying not to hear how loud my own steps were on her clean floor.
I slowly went up to my room.
The stairs creaked under my feet with every step, which made the whole house feel older than it looked from outside. The handrail wobbled a little. The carpet on the stairs was worn flat in the middle where a thousand feet had gone up and down.
Room Seven was at the very end of the hallway, just like she said. Past three closed doors, a bathroom with the light off, and a little framed sign that said RULES in crooked letters. I counted as I walked. Four, five, six. Seven.
I stopped in front of it.
The door was plain white. No name tag. No stickers. Just a little brass number 7 screwed into the wood, slightly crooked.
I opened it.
It was... fine. That was the best word for it. Not bad, not good. Fine.
There was a bed against one wall, a small dresser with three drawers, a desk with one chair pushed in way too neat, and a lamp with a plain white shade that had a tiny dent in it. The blankets were gray. Not soft gray, like office carpet gray. The curtains were beige. The carpet was that color that's not really beige and not really gray, like it gave up trying to be a color at all.
No posters. No pictures on the walls, just two little holes where maybe posters used to be. No decorations. No rug. No trash can even.
Nothing that made it feel like anybody actually lived there. Like someone had cleared everything out fast and made the bed.
I stood in the doorway for a second and just looked.
"At least it's mine," I whispered, and my voice sounded too loud in the empty room.
I dropped my backpack beside the bed. It thudded. I sat down on the edge of the mattress and it dipped under me with a little creak. Not uncomfortable. Just unfamiliar. The sheets smelled clean, like detergent, but not like home clean.
I looked around again and tried to imagine what the room would look like with something purple in it. Anything purple. A blanket. A pillow. A stupid little lamp from Target. A poster. Something that didn't look like it came from a waiting room.
Instead everything was gray and beige and white. It felt like a hotel room somebody forgot to finish decorating. Or like a room that was supposed to be temporary on purpose, so you don't get too comfortable.
I pulled my backpack onto the bed and unzipped it. The zipper stuck for a second on that broken front pocket like always.
For a second I just stared at everything I had packed. My socks rolled into balls. The jean skirt folded small. Two shirts. My phone charger tangled. The beaded bracelet Maya gave me at lunch last year, the one with the little L bead that was already chipping.
And the letter. Still folded in half, crease going white and soft.
Basically my whole life squeezed into one backpack.
I took the bracelet out first and set it on the nightstand. It was so colorful against the white paint that it almost glowed. Purple and blue and that one chipped L.
Then I picked up my sleeve - the lavender shirt I was still wearing - and folded it over my hand and looked down at it.
Lavender.
At least the room had one color now.
I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a while. There wasn't much else to look at. Popcorn texture, a hairline crack from the light fixture to the corner. I followed it one way, then back again.
After a minute I rolled onto my side toward the window.
The street was quiet. A few porch lights were still on, orange and soft, and the tops of parked cars were starting to get dewy under the streetlights. Somewhere farther down the block, a bedroom light clicked off.
I wondered if Mom was still awake. She probably was - she always stays up after a fight doing dishes she already did, or folding laundry at midnight. Dad probably was too, TV on like always.
Were they still arguing about me, or had the house finally gone quiet? Was Mom at the kitchen table in that spot by the sink with her arms crossed? Was Dad pacing?
Part of me wanted to be angry, slam-a-door angry. Part of me wanted to go home, bad, even back to that kitchen. How do you miss a place that just made you leave?
I pulled the pillow closer. It smelled like nothing.
Everything had changed in one night. That morning I'd woken up to my own alarm.
I kept watching the street until my eyes got heavy and the porch lights started to blur.
And somewhere between one blink and the next, I fell asleep with my shoes still half on and the lamp still burning.