Chapter Text
It’s Monday when Tim receives the news. In between spoonfuls of oatmeal, the elderly woman who’s been taking care of him tells him CPS found him a new home.
Tim stops chewing and he carefully places the spoon on the bowl. A new home passes through the young child’s head as he stares at his bowl of oatmeal, his ravenous appetite now long gone.
Seconds later, he tilts his head to the side. Tim doesn’t remember wanting to relocate. Last time the social worker asked him if he wanted to move places Tim said no. That he was perfectly fine living with Mrs. Smith, his newest foster parent. An elderly woman, in her early seventies, who’s got a love for cats and all types of furry animals that have four paws and one tail.
There are good things and bad things about living with Mrs. Smith. Unlike Tim’s previous foster parents, Mrs. Smith doesn’t shout at him. She’s never laid a hand on him. More importantly, Tim even has his own bed, one that is exclusively shared between him and Mrs. Smith’s cats.
(Cats that Tim has no problem cuddling with.)
The only downside is that Mrs. Smith is prone to getting sick. Tim doesn’t know the full details surrounding Mrs. Smith’s health but based on all the doctor appointments and blood exams, it appears she’s got a lot of issues going on. Now it’s not Tim's place to ask—after all his parents have taught him better than that—but sometimes Tim tends to worry… something will happen to her.
The thought of finishing his lukewarm breakfast is long gone. Instead it’s been replaced by a mix of fear along with a multitude of questions, one more profound than the other. Like for example, why are they changing him now? Who will take care of him?
As if sensing Tim’s curious mind, his current caretaker proceeds to smile at him.
“Aren’t you happy?” She asks him, propping her elbows on the table, in that saccharine like voice that adults reserve when they want an answer from him. Like the questions the people in black asked him, after the accident, for example.
Simple and basic questions such as how old are you and what’s your favorite color, to slowly morph into more complex ones like has your daddy ever hit your mommy?
Tim remembers hearing them. He also distinctly remembers the outcome of answering those questions.
It makes Tim sit perfectly still.
“...Timmy?”
The metal table squeaks under Mrs. Smith’s weight, with just enough force to make Tim’s ear hurt. Tim swallows the urge to cover his ears. Even if it’s been months since he last saw her, his mom's sharp words still ring fresh in his mind. Timothy, dear, please don't cover your ears, she’d hiss at him whenever people weren’t looking.
While Tim might not know when he’ll be reunited with his parents—It’s not much of a matter of why Tim was separated from them what interests the young child’s mind but it’s more of when they will be back what preoccupies him—he knows better than to disregard his mom’s rules. He’s a good boy. Or at least, that’s what all previous caretakers have told him over the passing months.
Tim glances at the room. This is the longest he’s stayed. Six months. It makes sense, in a way.
Mrs. Smith is the kind of person that makes you feel welcome. She’s not overly strict. Or too demanding. However, Tim’s not blind a man. Despite the constant reassurances that Tim’s not a bother, that please Tim I can wash those dishes feel free to watch some TV, Tim can see the whole picture. Mrs. Smith’s health has been deteriorating lately. The latest trip to the doctor, the one that culminated with Mrs. Smith sobbing all the way back, should have warned him.
With so many health issues, there isn’t that much time to take care of oneself, let alone a stranger’s kid. Maybe it was Mrs. Smith who launched the relocation form herself.
It’s for the best, Tim thinks to himself.
And so, instead of bursting into tears, Tim forces the corner of his lips to curl up into a grin.
It hurts, but this isn’t the first time Tim has had his heart broken.
His parents made sure to break his heart the first time when they abandoned him.
“When do I meet them?”
***