Chapter Four

The letter came on a Tuesday.

Sam was watching cartoons, sprawled on the floor with a bowl of dry cereal and Bun Bun wearing a paper crown. I was sorting mail—bills, coupons, a glossy flyer for a flooring company I’d never heard of. And then… the envelope.

Heavy paper. Gold trim. Return address printed in dark green ink: Shivdasani Trust, Mumbai.

At first, I thought it was a mistake. Something promotional. A weird international estate planning ad. I almost tossed it.

Then I saw Sam’s full name on the second line. Not a nickname. Her full name.

Samara Indira Shivdasani.

I hadn’t seen that name in years. Ziya never used it. Not at school. Not with friends.

I sat down at the table before I opened it.

The letter inside was two pages. Dense. Precise. Not cruel—but clinical, in that way rich people get when they want to be gracious while taking something they already believe is theirs.

They were “respectfully requesting a custody review.”

They had “deep familial ties” and “substantial resources available.”

It wasn’t official—not in the legal sense. But it didn’t need to be.

This was a family with resources. Families like that didn’t ask twice.

They believed “Samara would benefit from cultural immersion, heritage continuity, and an environment tailored to someone of her potential.”

I reread that line three times.

Not “emotional needs.” Not “attachment.”

Someone of her potential.

They didn’t mention Ziya’s magic, not directly. But I heard it anyway, tucked between the formal clauses and heavy paper stock.

They weren’t just offering Sam a home. They were offering her a legacy—one I wasn’t part of.

I folded the letter neatly, placed it back in the envelope, and slid it under the fruit bowl like I was hiding a crime.

Then I sat there and stared at the bananas until the sun shifted across the kitchen window.

I didn’t tell Sam. She was singing to the cereal and asking Bun Bun if bunnies could be queens.

I wanted to tell her yes. I wanted that to be enough.

I didn’t call Bianca. I hadn’t called her in over a week. She’d tell me to fight. I wasn’t ready to hear it.

And I didn’t call Ziya’s lawyer in Seattle. I couldn’t afford their fees, and I didn’t want to make it adversarial.

If I brought in legal counsel, it would signal a fight. And I wasn’t sure I’d win one. Better to keep it quiet. I didn’t want to look like the kind of person who made trouble. They’d already done enough.

And anyway, lawyers like that didn’t help people like me. Not really. Not unless someone was paying them to.

I took out my planner and made a list:

1.       Find Sam’s immunization records

2.      Copy of Ziya’s will

3.      Make sure Sam has enough clean socks

4.      Reprint Sam’s birth certificate

5.      Call Meg

Then I wrote a sixth line.

6.      What if they’re right? What if I’m not enough?