He doesn’t know he’s safe yet.
When I brought him home, he climbed up the front steps slowly, almost as if each one was a risk. Inside, he collapsed onto the couch. Not with fatigue—but with something far heavier, something no bed or roof should carry.
He sat hunched, eyes planted on emptiness, trembling in the silent space between us. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was sorrow. The kind that comes from being broken again and again—each hardship carving out a piece of hope until it vanishes. Trauma so deep it convinces you the world outside is still waiting to tear you apart.
He doesn’t understand yet that I won’t walk away. That I’ll stay—quietly, gently—watching over him. He doesn’t know he’ll never have to face the streets again. He doesn’t yet believe in safety, or kindness, or that hands meant to comfort don’t also hurt.
He avoids my gaze. When I try to look into his eyes, he flinches, pulls away. Maybe he thinks no one deserves comfort. Maybe he believes that trust is just a luxury. Maybe he thinks love is something that only ends in loss.
But I believe in slow things. I believe in letting time be kind. I believe that healing is not a race, but a patient tending of wounds—small kindnesses, steady presence, quiet reassurance. No expectations. No pressure. Just letting him exist, in all his woundedness, and letting him taste safety, one breath, one day, one look.
He doesn’t have to speak. Doesn’t have to move. Doesn’t have to do anything but breathe. Because maybe that alone is the start of him learning that home can be more than four walls. Home can be unconditional. That home can be a sanctuary.
In the quiet nights, I watch him curl up, still poised to flee, still listening for danger. But there are no shadows waiting. There is only warmth. There is only a hand reaching out, steady in its promise. There is only here—finally.
One day, I believe, he’ll lift his chin. He’ll glance around this safe space, look me in the eyes, and realize—this is home. This is for him. He belongs here. And I’ll be at his side, proud, hoping he feels what he’s always deserved: that he is safe. That he is loved. That he matters.
Welcome, my boy. You’re safe now.