Ethan turned. "Yes?"
The woman hesitated, then sat down. "Maya has been handling everything remarkably well."
The compliment sounded more heartbreaking than comforting. Handling everything. A child shouldn't have to handle everything.
"Where are her parents?" Ethan asked quietly.
The social worker's expression softened. "There aren't any."
The answer settled heavily over the room. Ethan had suspected; now he knew. Her mother had left years ago; her father was never part of her life. Grandma Ruth had raised her alone, and after Ruth passed away, Maya had simply kept going—the way children sometimes do when they don't have another choice.
The social worker opened the file. "There are some extended family contacts we're trying to locate."
Maya looked down; the reaction didn't escape Ethan. "Do you know them?"
Maya shook her head. "Not really."
The woman continued, "Until arrangements are finalized, she'll remain here."
Remain here? The words echoed through Ethan's mind. Remain here. A room, a shelter, a temporary bed, temporary meals, temporary safety, temporary everything. The thought bothered him more than he wanted to admit, because Maya had become the least temporary thing in his life.
The social worker eventually excused herself, leaving them alone again. For several minutes, neither spoke. Then Ethan noticed something: several papers sticking out from the notebook—bills, receipts, folded pages.
Curious, he nodded toward them. "What are those?"
Maya looked embarrassed. "Nothing."
"Maya."
She sighed, then handed them over.
Ethan opened the first page; his heart sank: rent notices, utility bills, late-payment warnings, medical expenses from Grandma Ruth's final illness.
The second page hit even harder: a handwritten schedule, detailed, careful, meticulous. Every day mapped out: every therapy session, every exercise, every appointment, every observation. At the top of every page appeared one name: Ethan Caldwell. Again, and again, and again—page after page, for months.
Ethan stared; his vision blurred. Not a single entry mentioned money—not one. No requests, no expectations, no plans to ask for help. Only notes about helping him: helping him stand, helping him heal, helping him believe again.
The realization nearly broke him. All this time, while she was losing her home, while she was struggling alone, while she was carrying debts she couldn't possibly understand, she had focused on him, not herself.
The room fell silent. Maya looked nervous, as if she expected him to be angry.
Instead, Ethan quietly folded the papers, then asked, "Why?"
She blinked. "What?"
"Why did you keep doing all this?"