He only wanted adults to stop deciding what he could understand before listening to him.
One evening, long after the courtrooms emptied and the reporters found another scandal, Ethan and I ate breakfast for dinner in the kitchen of our new home.
The house was smaller than the mansion and warmer in every way that mattered.
He placed blueberries onto two plates.
“Twelve for you,” he said.
“Twelve for me.”
I checked the bowl.
Two berries remained.
He smiled.
“Those are extra.”
I remembered the morning Adrian dropped two berries, ignored Ethan’s correction, and laughed as though cruelty were proof of intelligence.
Adrian had believed power meant speaking loudly enough that no one questioned his numbers.
Ethan taught the entire courtroom something different.
Truth did not need to shout.
Sometimes it only needed ten seconds, one careful child, and the courage to count what everyone else had been told not to see.
