The pen grip that broke me today

I was watching a kid in the foster home — eight, maybe — fidgeting with a blue Bic. Not writing, just rolling it between his fingers like it was alive. Then he tucked it into the crook of his thumb and held it like a tiny baton. I froze. That’s how my brother used to hold pens before we taught him ‘properly.’ The way he’d tilt his head when he wrote, like he was listening to the line speak. I didn’t say anything. Just handed him a notepad and said, ‘Draw something weird.’ He drew a bird with three legs and a crown made of staples. I still have that sketch. It’s taped to my fridge. Sometimes I