Chapter Seven

The pancakes were burning.

I flipped them anyway, pretending not to notice the smoke curling off the edge. Sam sat at the kitchen table, swinging her legs and humming tunelessly into her cup of milk. Bun Bun was tucked into the chair beside her, propped up like a second guest at breakfast.

It was Saturday. One week since the coffee cart. Since the card with Naveen’s name and the weight behind it. We hadn’t been back to the library since. I told Stacey Sam had a cold. That we were laying low. I didn’t want to risk giving anything to the other kids.

Which meant no library, no storytime, no playdates. Just me and Sam and a house that felt too big even when it was full of her laughter.

That was the lie. The truth was simpler. I didn’t want to risk running into Naveen again.

I scraped the pancakes onto a plate and set them in front of her.

“Ta-da,” I said, giving them a little jazz-hands flourish. “Special Saturday pancakes.”

She clapped, her whole face lighting up. “Sprinkles?”

“Only the best,” I said, pulling the rainbow sprinkles out of the cabinet and shaking them over the top like fairy dust.

It was silly. It was messy. It was normal.

I needed it to be normal.

I was reaching for the syrup when the knock came.

Three quick raps. Firm. Certain.

I froze, the syrup bottle in hand.

Sam slid off her chair before I could stop her, bare feet pattering across the kitchen floor. “I get it!” she cried, all bounce and excitement.

“Sweetheart, wait—”

But she was already pulling the door open.

And there was Bianca. Crisp jeans, black blazer, travel mug in one hand, car keys in the other. Hair slicked into a low twist. Makeup sharp and minimal. She looked like she could step into a courtroom in ten minutes and win. Her smile flickered only slightly when she saw me.

“Hi, Allison,” she said.

Like it was casual. Like she hadn’t driven two hours north without warning.

“Hi,” I said, voice too bright. “What a surprise.”

“Auntie B!” Sam ran into her legs, hugging tight without hesitation.

Bianca bent down, ruffling Sam’s curls, her smile softening for a second. “Hey, kiddo.”

I stood there, holding the syrup bottle like a weapon, wishing I could close the door without making it obvious.

Because I knew why she was here.

And I knew I couldn’t lie to Bianca. Not well enough to matter.

Bianca stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, moving like she already belonged there—or like she wasn’t sure the door would stay open if she didn’t cross it fast enough. Her heels clicked once on the worn hardwood before she kicked them off by the door, neat and practical, like everything about her.

“I brought donuts,” she said, lifting a white paper bag.

Sam lit up, running forward with the wide-eyed joy only a three-year-old could muster. “Donuts!”

I tried to match her smile, tried to make it real, but something inside me twisted tight. “That’s so thoughtful,” I said, like the words were a perfectly wrapped present I didn’t have to mean.

Bianca handed the bag to Sam with a little theatrical flourish. “Only if you promise to save me one.”

Sam giggled and ran off toward the living room, dragging the bag behind her like treasure. The house swallowed the sound of her footsteps, leaving Bianca and me alone in a silence too big to ignore.

“Don’t worry,” Bianca said, dropping her purse neatly by her shoes. “There’s only two in the bag. I brought us croissants too. From a little bakery in Fremont. They make them fresh every morning. I was there when they opened.” She glanced back at me with a bright, practiced smile. “Do you have coffee?”

Before I could answer, she was moving deeper into the house, toward the kitchen. I had no choice but to trail behind her, scooping up the trail of stuffed animals, blankets, and half-finished drawings Sam had scattered in her wake.

Bianca moved through the space like a searchlight in a dark room. She didn’t turn her head, didn’t slow down, but I could feel her taking everything in—the clutter stacked carefully in corners, the dishes soaking in the sink, the stack of unpaid bills wedged under the fruit bowl, my hair scraped into a lopsided bun I hadn’t even checked before opening the door.

I felt seen. Not in the way friends were supposed to see you—messy and loved anyway. In the way an auditor sees you. Measured. Weighed.

Still, she didn’t say anything. She just slipped off her blazer and hooked it over the back of a chair, settling in like she had every right to be here. Like I was the one being unreasonable for wanting the door to stay shut.

Bianca moved around my kitchen like she lived here. She opened cabinets, took down plates, set out two mugs out, and pulled paper towels for napkins. She didn’t say anything about what was lacking or missing, or needed doing, but she saw it all.

I wiped my hands on my sweatpants and pretended not to notice how easily she found everything.

“How’s the custody paperwork going?” she asked, her tone light, almost distracted as she tore the paper bag open and placed the croissants on a chipped blue plate.

“It’s fine,” I said too fast. “Everything’s filed. Just waiting on hearing dates now.”

A beat.

“Please don’t tell me you filed pro se?”

“I did.”

I hadn’t known what that meant when the clerk handed me the forms. I just smiled and took the packet like I knew what I was doing. Later that night, after putting Sam to bed, I looked it up on some legal help site with flashing ads for bail bonds and custody calculators. I highlighted everything I didn’t understand. Which was most of it.

I couldn’t let Bianca see how far out of my depth I was. She’d take over. And that would be the end of it.

“Allison,” she said, not unkindly. “This is a really bad idea. If you don’t file the paperwork properly—”

“I know,” I said, cutting her off. “I’ve got it under control.”

Bianca made that soft humming sound people make when they don’t believe you but aren’t ready to call you on it yet.

I wondered if Stacey had called her. Told her I couldn’t handle what was happening.

I reached for the syrup-sticky dishcloth again, like maybe if I just kept wiping, Bianca wouldn’t see how bad things were.  

“It should be alright,” Bianca said, more to comfort herself than me. “Ziya named you. And her parents don’t seem to care. You’ll be fine.”

For a minute, the only sound was the coffee machine finishing its cycle. Sam’s voice drifted in from the back porch, humming and chatting to herself from the fort we’d built under the patio table.

“So,” she said, her voice light in that way people use when they’re trying not to scare you off, “how are you holding up?”

I wiped at an invisible spot on the counter, keeping my head down. “We’re fine. Sam’s doing great.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Really, Bianca. We’re fine.”

The words hung there like a balloon slowly deflating.

She watched me for a long moment, and I hated how well she could do that—say nothing, wait out the cracks she already knew were there.

I hoped maybe, just maybe, we could keep it light. That Bianca might let it go.

Then she set the coffee mug in front of me and said, almost gently, “Have you tried?”

I knew exactly what she meant. She didn’t need to spell it out.

Ziya.

I picked up the mug, warm with fresh coffee, wrapping both hands around it to hide the way they were shaking.

“I can’t,” I said. Quiet. Careful. Final.

Not I tried.

Not It didn’t work.

Not I’m sorry.

Just I can’t.

Bianca went still. Not dramatic, just a tightening around her mouth, a stillness in her spine that told me she was slotting that answer into some internal file.

I looked away, pretending to pick at the croissant, pretending not to see the way her expression shifted.

She thought I was weak. Or broken. Or both. She wasn’t wrong.

Not strong enough to fight for Sam.

Not strong enough to save Ziya.

Not strong enough to matter.

Not strong like Meg.

I wanted to tell her she was wrong.

That I couldn’t because of a promise, and grief, and something deeper I didn’t have words for. But if I said any of that, I’d break. And she’d know how weak I was.

So instead, I smiled. Tight. Too bright. Like a woman holding a cracked vase together with both hands.

“We’re managing,” I said, press the mug to my lips, the coffee burning my tongue. “We’re fine.”

Bianca’s eyes narrowed.

Oops. I’d already said that.

If Meg were here, this would all be different. She was always the strong one. The one who made decisions. The one people listened to. Even Bianca had never been able to stand up to Meg when she dug in.

Thinking Meg’s name was enough for Bianca to ask, “You haven’t heard from her, have you?”

That was one question Bianca didn’t need me to answer. She had plenty to say.

“You think she could pick up the phone. Seriously...” Bianca shook her head, laughing without humor. She tore the croissant in half like it had personally offended her, pastry flakes scattering across the counter. “Do you sill leave her messages?”

I hesitated. No matter what I said, it would be wrong. But at least she was irritated at Meg and not me.

I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“Classic Meg,” she said. “Disappear the second things stop being convenient. Pretend none of this exists. That it doesn’t matter.” She didn’t eat the croissant. Just dropped it back on the plate and shoved it away like it was Meg herself.

I stayed quiet, letting Bianca’s words fill the kitchen.

“She didn’t just leave, Allison. She disappeared. Like it was nothing. Like we were nothing. Like she was the only one who mattered. CeCe’s death didn’t just break her. She broke all of us. And we stayed.”

It wasn’t that simple. But saying that would sound like defending Meg. And I didn’t have the strength for that today. God please bring her back, I missed her so much. But admitting that would only make Bianca see how fragile I really was.

“She’s not here,” I said finally, my voice a threadbare thing.

Bianca snorted. “No shi—” She caught herself. “Shiitake mushroom.”

Sam’s laughter floated in from the back porch—bright, unbothered, untouched by any of it. A thread of light winding through the bitterness rising in my chest.

Bianca let it drop, but I could feel the weight of everything she wasn’t saying. The comments she was holding back. The judgments she was swallowing.

I wished I could hate Meg for not being here. Blame her. Make her the villain. It would’ve been easier than admitting I was the one who stayed—and still couldn’t fix a damn thing.

Bianca drew a steadying breath and softened just enough to make it worse.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to rant about Meg.” Her voice dropped, not with anger, but something worse—care. “Allison... you don’t have to do this alone. Let me help. I know people. Good people. We could get you real representation—”

“I have real representation.”

Her frown was small, but sharp. She set her coffee mug down with a soft click. “At least let me look at the paperwork. I can recommend someone, or I could—”

“I’ve got it handled.”

Her eyes narrowed—just a flicker—but it was enough. The shift from friend to lawyer was instantaneous. I saw the courtroom version of her: composed, ruthless, unwilling to take half-answers.

“Who's representing you?”

I smiled, too wide, too fast. “I’m doing it myself. It’s just temporary custody stuff. It’s fine. A lot of paperwork. I don’t need to pay someone to fill out paperwork.”

Her eyes narrowed, the lawyer flickering behind the friend.

“Temporary custody doesn’t last forever.”

“I know.”

Bianca didn’t push. She didn’t have to.

The judgment was in what she didn’t say.

I saw it anyway. And I hated how close it came to the truth.

If I told her about Naveen—about the letter, the coffee cart, the way he’d looked at me like I was inconsequential—she’d step in. She’d take over. She’d call in favors and flip the table and never let me do this my way.

And I needed it to be my way.

Because if I didn’t do this right, I might lose Sam.

Because if I let someone else fight this battle, I might never be able to fight for anything ever again.

She picked up her blazer, slinging it over her arm like a shield. “I’m in town through Wednesday. . .”

“I don’t need—”

“Not everything is about you.” She arched a brow. “There’s someone I met on ThrustNet—”

I choked. “ThrustNet? That’s how people get diseases.”

Bianca grinned, wicked and unbothered. “It’s called ThrustNet, not TrustNet. I'm not looking for commitment—I’m looking for cardio.”

“Bianca—”

“Seriously Allison, I have no plan to get syphilis. I also have work here. Clients.” She might have been lying. It didn’t matter. “I’ll stop by tomorrow evening. Bring pizza. The kind with pineapple. We’ll have movie night. Popcorn. Wine. I picked up Lilo & Stitch from Blockbuster. Sam’s going to love the one with all the eyeballs. You might cry. Just warning you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” She cut me off so smoothly it didn’t feel like a kindness. It felt like the first slice of a surgeon’s knife. “You can even take a bath without chasing Sam around the house for five minutes. I’ll bring bubble bath. And one of my trashy romance novels. You know, the kind where the guy has a six-pack and questionable consent issues. You may need more than five minutes—”

“Bianca!”

That got a flush of color and smile out of me—small, real, reluctant.

Sam chose that moment to barrel into the kitchen, waving a drawing over her head.

“Look, Auntie B!” she cried. “Moma’s in Atlantis today! She’s hunting mermaids!”

Bianca crouched down, laughing in spite of herself, and took the paper with a solemn nod. “She better watch out. Mermaids bite.”

Sam grinned, proud as a cat with a prize, before running back outside to her fort.

Bianca stood slowly, her hands brushed the wrinkles from her slacks. She looked at me again, really looked, and for a second I thought she might let it go. Pretend, the way I was pretending.

Instead, she crossed the kitchen in two quick steps and wrapped her arms around me.

I stiffened instinctively—too many months spent folding inward, holding everything together by sheer will—but she didn’t let go. She just held me, firm and steady and so achingly real it hurt worse than anything else had.

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered against my hair. “You’re not alone. Ever.”

I stood there, stiff as a board, hands curled against her back like I didn’t know how to move.

I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe her.

But wanting something didn’t make it true.

When she finally pulled away, her hands stayed on my shoulders for a beat longer, anchoring me, before she let go.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Call me if you need anything. I’m just fifteen minutes away at the Bellwether. Love you to the moon!” She called as she vanished out the door.

I stood there in the wreckage of my own stubbornness, listening to Sam singing somewhere out of sight, and told myself it was better this way. Safer.

But the house felt colder after Bianca left.

And I didn’t feel safer at all.