I’m Claire, 28, American, and I grew up in foster care. By eight, I’d lived in more homes than birthdays and learned not to get attached.
At the last orphanage, I met Noah — nine, serious, in a wheelchair, ignored by everyone. I sat with him one afternoon and said, “If you’re going to guard the window, you have to share the view.” That was the start of us.
We grew up together, saw every version of each other, and made a ritual joke: if one got adopted, the other got their hoodie or headphones. But no one came for us. We clung to each other.
At 18 we aged out with plastic bags, no celebration, just “good luck.” We shared an apartment above a laundromat, went to community college, worked crappy jobs, and made the first place that felt like ours. Over time, our friendship became love — no dramatic moment, just comfort and closeness. We became boyfriend and girlfriend, finished degrees, and Noah proposed at home while I made pasta. We had a small wedding and were happy.
The next morning, a man named Thomas came to our door with an envelope. He said he represented Harold Peters, a man Noah barely remembered who Noah once helped after a fall. Harold left everything to Noah — a house with a ramp, savings, security.
It was surreal. We toured the house: small, real, ours. Noah whispered that people always came to take something, not give. But this was different.
Growing up, no one chose us. But Harold saw Noah, and his kindness changed everything.