Jayden, a boy born in the late ’90s, grows up in chaos — both parents trapped in addiction, poverty, and neglect. Taken into foster care after a police raid, he’s separated from his younger sister Layla, a loss that leaves a scar he carries everywhere.

From there, Jayden is tossed through the foster system, group homes, and institutions, learning the unspoken rules of survival: don’t cry, don’t trust, don’t get attached. He builds walls around himself, and his reputation as an “angry, unmanageable” kid follows him from school to school.

At twelve, fighting and defiance put him on the fast track to juvenile detention. Inside, he meets Miguel, an older boy who becomes his first real friend. Miguel teaches him that not every battle is worth fighting, and that survival sometimes means keeping your peace. That friendship plants a seed in Jayden, one that stays with him long after release.

Later, in a youth institution, Jayden meets Malik, a boy with a calm, steady presence who pushes him to see beyond anger. Malik gives him a sketchbook, helping Jayden rediscover art as a way to process his pain. These two friendships become anchors in a life that feels like it’s always being ripped apart.

On the outside, Jayden struggles with freedom — curfews, probation, teachers who don’t believe in him, and peers who see him as nothing but “the foster kid.” But he also meets Tasha, a girl who shares his love for creativity and becomes a fragile, on-and-off connection throughout his adolescence. She sees through his anger to the quiet boy underneath, but Jayden’s fear of abandonment pushes her away just when he needs her most.

Now fourteen, Jayden finds himself caught between two versions of himself: the fighter the system keeps shaping him into, and the boy searching for something — or someone — to believe in. Every fight, every sketch, every late-night thought pulls him closer to a breaking point, where he’ll have to decide if he’ll keep letting the system define him, or if he’ll learn to write his own story.

By the end of her second week in the Harris house, Layla had mastered the art of being invisible.


Yes ma'am. Thank you. Quiet at dinner. Quiet at bedtime.


Mrs. Harris bragged about her to the caseworker.


"She's such a sweet girl. Easy compared to some of the others."


Layla smiled on cue. But inside, she felt like wallpaper — there, but unnoticed.


The older boys in the house — Kevin and Andre — barely spoke to her. At first, she thought that meant safety. But silence, she learned, didn't mean kindness.


Sliding her fork just out of reach at dinner.


Switching her chores so she had double.


Smirking when Mrs. Harris wasn't looking.


"You're not family," he whispered one night as she passed in the hallway.


"You're just here until somebody else takes you. Or until they get tired of you too."


The words stung worse than the slap she half-expected.


One night, during dinner, Layla spilled her milk. Just a small accident — a glass tipped by her elbow.


Kevin grinned. "Told you. She's useless."


Mrs. Harris's sigh cut through the room. "Layla, sweetheart, you have to be more careful."


Later, in the dark of her room, Layla clutched her stuffed bunny tight. Kevin's voice echoed in her head: You're not family. You're just here until they're tired of you.


Instead, she whispered into the pillow, "You promised."


And for the first time since arriving, she let herself cry where no one could hear.


Chapter 24 - the unwanted guest