She was coming home

Kian

I sat in the hallway outside the hearing room, leg bouncing, heart rattling around my ribs like it was trying to climb out of me.

It wasn't a courtroom, not exactly. No judge in robes or jury box or slamming gavels. Just a dull grey room with a table, three officials, a social worker, and a heap of files none of them would look at properly. But for me—for my family—it might as well have been the bleeding Supreme Court.

Because inside that room, someone else was deciding if my little sister came home.

And I couldn't do anything about it.

I wasn't even supposed to be here. I was meant to be at school. But Mam asked me to come. Said it'd be good for them to see me. "Show them how far we've come," she said, straightening my collar like I was still ten. Dad hadn't said much—he never did in these kinds of situations—but he looked at me like he appreciated it. Like it mattered to him that I showed up.

And maybe it did. Maybe it would matter.

Because we needed this.

We needed Emi back.

She'd been gone for six months. Taken into foster care after that last row—after Mam's hands shook too much and Dad's temper got too loud and the neighbours finally called someone. She'd only been seven. She didn't understand any of it. Just cried when she had to leave, arms outstretched for Mam, snot on her face, screaming.

It gutted me.

I was sixteen, but that day, I'd felt five. Powerless. Worthless. Like I'd failed her.

I still feel that.

The door opened and our solicitor stepped out. She gave me a quick, polite nod before beckoning Mam and Dad in. They stood, tense and quiet, and I went to follow them.

"You're not allowed in just yet," the solicitor said, gentle but firm.

I nodded and sat back down. Alone again. Waiting.

Time moved like treacle. Every second dragged like a punishment.

I thought about Emi—what she was doing right now. Whether she was in school. Whether she still had that stupid unicorn backpack she loved so much. Whether she still remembered the bedtime song I used to hum to her when Mam was too tired. Whether she still remembered me.

I wiped my hands on my jeans, suddenly freezing. I hated not knowing. Hated that I couldn't fix it.

It was weird—people always assumed I'd be the one who messed up. That I'd be the reason the social workers showed up. The big lad, bit of a mouth on him, always scrapping. But no. It wasn't me.

It was the people I was supposed to depend on.

And still, I loved them. Even when I wanted to scream. Even when I had to be the adult. Because Mam was trying. Da was....trying too. And sometimes people forget how bloody hard it is to try when the world already expects you to fail.

The door opened again.

"Kian?" the solicitor said. "They want to speak to you."

My heart stuttered.

I stood up, palms sweaty, and followed her inside.

The room was too bright. The walls too blank. Three people looked up from a long table, papers in front of them. Mam and Dad sat on the opposite side, shoulders rigid. Mam looked at me like I was the only thing in the room holding her together.

"Mr. Holland," one of the panel members said. "We'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's alright."

I nodded and sat down, back straight.

They asked about school. My part-time job at the garage. Whether I was still living at home. What I saw that night—the night they took Emi. Whether I thought things had changed.

I didn't give them some polished answer. I just told the truth.

"I think people mess up," I said, voice tight. "And I think people can get better. My mam's sober. My dad's been going to counselling. The house is quiet now. Safe. Emi should be home."

There was silence. Then another question. And another.

But the only thing I kept thinking was: Let her come home. Please.

When I stepped out again, Mam reached for my hand and squeezed it.

She didn't cry. I think she'd done all her crying already.

We waited. And waited.

And then—finally—the door opened once more.

The social worker stepped out, her face unreadable.

"You've been granted a trial reunification period," she said. "Supervised, to start. If all goes well, it'll become permanent."

Mam covered her mouth, gasping. Dad let out a long, shaky breath. I just sat there, feeling like something heavy had been lifted off my chest.

Emi was coming home.

Not all at once. Not forever, not yet. But it was something.

It was hope.

And for the first time in months, that was enough.