Jordan

Jordan is five. Biracial — Black mom (Tasha), white European dad. Light brown skin, a soft afro his mama keeps trimmed close, big hazel-brown eyes, and a gap-toothed smile missing one front tooth. He dresses like he’s tagging along to work — pale-blue oxford, sage knit sweater vest, a bright-yellow kid-sized clipboard tucked under his arm. But the outfit isn’t the point.

Jordan is the watcher. While grown-ups talk square footage and finished basements, he’s paying attention to the things they stop seeing: the sound of a stranger’s stereo down the block, the dog two doors down, the way a mom’s eyes go soft when she’s looking out a back window.

He’s shy with new people, warm once he settles. He observes much more than he speaks, and when he does speak, it matters.

What he wants is small and specific: to do a good job with his clipboard, to make his uncle smile, to find a popsicle somewhere new. What scares him is small too: loud grown-ups, his uncle looking tired, the family on the tour not laughing.

“He is the still small voice in a story full of grown-up worry.”