You're not feeling overwhelmed, are you, dear?

I sat on the balcony chair, puffing on a cigarette while observing the kid from the corner of my eye, scrutinizing every detail. Aside from his slightly darker skin, he looked no different from any American kid. His hair was naturally curly, just like mine, a trait that ran in my family—my father, uncles, and most of my cousins all had curly hair.

There seemed to be a bit of myself in his features. To anyone unaware of the circumstances, they might believe he was my own son.

I finally had a son, not by blood, but he was my first love's child. Given my deep feelings for Laura and him being her only bloodline, I decided to redirect my love for Laura towards him. If life went as planned, I wouldn't have children of my own, so he would be my only child.

I thought seeing Michael would fill me with joy and excitement, considering my love for Laura and my lack of children. But for some reason, I just couldn't warm up to him. Normally, I'm a kid person, but something seemed off, and I couldn't quite put my finger on why I didn't feel affection for him.

When we got home, Betty started to tidy up the spare bedroom. Since it was just the two of us, that room was mostly unused. She bustled about, and soon, the room was ready.

"Michael, you'll bunk here tonight. Tomorrow, I'll go out and buy you a new suitcase, some clothes, and other necessities," Betty said, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand as she tied on an apron to start cooking.

"Okay," Michael responded, looking up briefly.

Betty whipped up a couple of simple dishes with the ingredients we had in the fridge, and soon dinner was served. Michael ate quietly, clearly preoccupied. Betty watched him with a look of deep affection. Michael was not only her student but soon to be her foster son. His recent family tragedy and his sorrowful plight tugged at her heartstrings. She kept serving him food, while the kid just ate without a word.

I ate my meal somewhat detached, occasionally glancing at Betty and Michael. It used to be just the two of us at the dinner table, with Betty chatting and serving me food. Now, her focus was entirely on Michael, and I felt somewhat sidelined, not even getting the occasional bite of food from her. The shift in her attention made me feel a twinge of jealousy, a taste of what they call the seven-year itch.

Although I understood that Betty's actions were right—she needed to use her maternal instincts to help the boy heal and provide him with extra care—it still stung a bit. Betty, being a Language Arts teacher and a part-time psychological counselor, undoubtedly knew what she was doing.

Even though I rationalized all this, I still felt uncomfortable. Maybe with time, I'd get used to it. After all, our duo had suddenly become a trio.

That night, Michael entered the spare bedroom and lay down on the bed. Betty gently tucked him in, then left the door ajar as she exited, keeping an eye on him due to her concerns.

I lounged on the couch, flipping through channels on the TV, occasionally peering through the crack of the door at Michael. I noticed he was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping, lost in his thoughts. The kid had been through a lot, and I hoped it hadn't cast a shadow over his psyche.

"Michael, try to get some sleep, buddy. You've got school tomorrow," Betty said as she finished cleaning up the kitchen and stopped by Michael's door to remind him. He glanced at her and nodded.

"Let's hit the hay ourselves, been a long day," Betty stretched, unintentionally showing off her curves.

I turned off the TV and the lights in the living room, then followed Betty back to our bedroom. I had a lot on my mind, especially about the kid's personality and his future.

Once in bed, Betty slipped into her nightgown, which was quite revealing due to its low cut and the sheer material. It was not exactly lingerie, but on Betty, it was undeniably sexy.

Normally, it was just the two of us at home, so Betty wore whatever she found comfortable.

Now, with a young boy in the house, I wondered if I should mention something about her choice of nightwear. But then I shook my head.

Betty was a psychological counselor; she knew what she was doing.

"Honey, how much do you really know about this kid? What's his temperament like?" I gently took the smartphone from Betty's hands—a habit of hers, checking social media or news before bed.

"Well, I don't know him that well yet. He's quite a mix—sometimes quiet, other times quite mischievous with his classmates. His academic performance is hit or miss. "

"He's quite unique, which is why he's one of the students I keep a close eye on. I've talked to him before, asked about his family, but he always dodges those questions. I didn't think much of it until you told me about his complicated family situation," Betty recounted, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

"So, you don't fully understand him yet?" I was surprised. Betty was skilled at reading people, yet she didn't fully grasp this 13-year-old boy.

"That's right, I don't fully understand him. He's often reserved and shy. Despite being a kid, he sometimes shows a maturity beyond his years, probably due to his family background and upbringing. But now that he's living with us, we'll get to know him better—it's just a matter of time."

"Yeah, I'm often away, and you're his homeroom teacher. You'll be dealing with him both at home and at school. I guess the kid's issues are in your capable hands. You're not feeling overwhelmed, are you, dear?"