Chapter Eight

The system wasn’t supposed to work like this.

I sat in the cracked plastic chair outside the Family Services Office, tapping my fingers against the armrest, heart beating too fast for how still the building was.

Sam was with Stacey today. Finger painting and playing princesses in a backyard full of apple trees. Safe. Happy. And here I was, trying not to look like the kind of woman they flagged for “further evaluation.”

My folder sat on my lap, edges worn soft from too much handling. Copies of every form I’d filed. Receipts. Witness letters. Emergency contact lists. All the tiny proofs of a life stitched carefully back together.

It should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.

The woman behind the glass window called my name.

I rose, smoothing my cardigan, trying to look like someone who belonged here.

She barely glanced at me over her computer screen.

“We’re missing your background clearance,” she said. “You’ll need to resubmit.”

“But I did. Last month. I have the receipt—”

“Doesn’t matter.” Click. Click. Shrug. “It’s not in the system. You'll have to redo it.”

I stood there for a heartbeat too long, folder clutched to my chest like a shield.

Not in the system.

Not in the system.

Not in the system.

Something cold and awful slid under my skin.

I smiled anyway. “Of course. I’ll take care of it.”

Because what else could I do?

I stepped back into the hallway, folder clutched tight against my ribs, and walked slowly toward the exit.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

The cheap carpet smelled faintly of old coffee and something sour underneath.

The same hallways I’d walked a dozen times before.

Only now, they felt foreign. Slippery. Like the ground was tilting under my feet and I was the only one who noticed.

Outside, the sun was shining too brightly. One of those late-spring afternoons that felt borrowed—warm, sharp-edged, and a little too warm, like the sky was trying too hard. The kind of weather that made promises it never kept.

It would rain again tomorrow. It always did.

I sat down on the low concrete wall by the parking lot, balancing my bag on my knees. A row of daffodils lined the edge—bright, bobbing heads turned skyward like they didn’t know any better.

Skagit Valley would be in full bloom soon. I’d wanted to take Sam to see the tulip festival, wander through the rows like we did the year before with Ziya and Bianca.

Like I used to with Hugh.

He always knew the best time to go—early in the morning, before the crowds, when the light hit the tulips just right. We’d pack a thermos and muffins and take the back roads through all the farmland. He’d tease me for taking too many pictures, then sneak one of me when I wasn’t looking.

I missed him in my bones.

Not just the shape of him beside me, but the way he made the world feel navigable. Like even the worst storms could be charted if you had the right maps.

He’d know what to do now.

He’d understand what this was.

And he’d never let me go through it alone.

Now I wasn’t sure I could promise Sam anything as simple as an afternoon in the tulips. Not when forms vanished. Not when futures could be erased with a shrug.

I pulled out my flip phone, an old gray one Hugh got me back in ’99. I hadn’t had the heart to replace it. Found the number for Opportunity Council and hit call. Sam’s kindergarten registration opened next month, and I couldn’t afford another form going missing.

I pressed call.

Listened to the hollow ring in my ear.

Once.

Twice.

Then a cheerful voice answered.

“Opportunity Council, this is Sharon, how can I help you?”

“Hi,” I said, adjusting my voice to something light. Normal. “This is Allison Brooks. I’m following up on a kindergarten enrollment I submitted last week? For Sam Shivdasani?”

More typing. More pause than there should’ve been.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, her voice warm but distracted. “We don’t seem to have anything under that name. Could it be under another name?”

I closed my eyes, pressing the heel of my hand lightly against my forehead.

“I dropped it off in person,” I said, still smiling because I didn’t know how else to survive this. “Last Thursday. With Mrs. Caldwell at the front desk. She even gave me a little sticker for Sam.”

Another pause. Another click of keys.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, voice gentler now, like she was talking to someone who might break. “There’s no record here. Would you like to pick up a new application?”

I wanted to laugh. And scream. And crumble into the sun-warmed concrete.

Instead, I said, “Yes, please. That would be wonderful.”

I hung up before she could tell me anything else was missing.

I sat there, phone limp in my hand, feeling fear take root—quiet and invasive, like mold under paint.

First the background check.

Now Sam’s school paperwork.

Pieces of our future, unraveling one thread at a time—while I smiled, thanked everyone, and kept pretending I could fix it.

I looked down at my hands, steady and pale against the dark print of my skirt.

Maybe it was just bad luck. A clerical error. A missing form in a pile of missing forms. But for the first time since all of this began, I realized—

It didn’t matter how many muffins I baked or how many lists I made. How many mornings I woke up and got dressed. Or how many letters I hid.

If I didn’t find a way to stop it—

If they decided I wasn’t good enough—

If the system turned against me—

If the paperwork vanished, and my name blurred, and no one remembered who I was—

They would take her from me.