An African-American child resents and then misses a little foster brother.

One day my momma told me, “You know you’re gonna have a little friend come stay with you.” And I said, “Who is it?” and “For how long?”

That’s when Stevie moved in with his crybaby self. He played with my toys and broke them, and he left dirty footprints all over my bed. But then Stevie left again, and I missed him. I missed playing Cowboys and Indians on the stoop and watching cartoons in the morning. Maybe. . .just maybe, Stevie wasn’t so bad after all.