Chapter One

The tea tasted like it had been reheated three times and forgotten twice. Not unpleasant. Just tired.

I held the cup anyway. It gave my hands something to do, and there was something calming about having something warm in your palms. People don’t ask too many questions when you act like you belong.

Holding something also makes you look settled. Even when your heart's somewhere under the floorboards and you’re trying not to hyperventilate.

A woman in a blazer with glasses stepped into the waiting room. “Ms. Brooks? Judge Everly will see you now.”

I smiled at her. “Thank you.”

I always say thank you, even when I’m scared. Maybe especially then.

Bianca had offered to come. I told her not to. Said it was just a formality. Said I was fine. She didn’t believe me, but she let me go alone. That’s the thing about women you think are strong—you believe them when they lie well enough.

The carpet in the hallway was the kind that whispered when you walked. Soft, beige, unmemorable. The walls were lined with sepia portraits of men in dark suits who smiled like they’d never been late picking up a kid from school or forgotten to pack an extra snack. I wondered if any of them had ever had to ask the principal to hold a child’s hand until someone could get there.

Probably not.

The room smelled like lemon polish and something institutional. The judge—mid-fifties, gray hair clipped short—glanced up from the file. “Ms. Brooks,” he said, not unkindly. “Please, have a seat.”

He gestured toward the chair. I sat. Smoothed my skirt. Kept my bag on my lap like a barrier, just in case my voice started shaking.

“The court acknowledges the guardianship designation listed in Ms. Shivandasi’s will,” he said, reading from the folder. “Temporary guardianship is granted to you, Ms. Brooks, pending further custody proceedings.”

He started talking. I listened. Or I tried to. His voice had that soft, empathetic cadence people use when they’ve learned how to deliver hard news gently. Like he was laying down sandbags before the flood hit.

Meg Walker. Primary guardian.

Allison Brooks. Secondary.

No relation.

“We’re still attempting to locate Ms. Walker,” the judge added. “In the interim, the court finds no cause to delay placement.”

I nodded. Too quickly.

Ziya had made her choice. But Meg was still the first name. I was just… what came after.

I kept my expression neutral. Warm, if I could manage it. It didn’t surprise me. Not really. Meg was always the first name on every list.

I didn’t say, Meg’s not here.

I didn’t say, I don’t know if she’s coming back.

I didn’t say, I’m scared out of my ever-loving mind.

It had been six days since Ziya collapsed. Long enough for her lawyer in Seattle—some firm with polished glass offices and names I couldn’t pronounce—to call and tell me I’d been listed in the will. Long enough for Sam’s teacher to cry on the phone, for the social worker to ask if I had a suit I could wear to court.

I reached for the pen when he handed it over. It was heavier than I expected. The kind you had to hold a certain way, like it belonged to someone who ran meetings, not bake sales.

I signed where he indicated. My handwriting was a little too small, like it was trying not to take up space.

When it was done, he folded the papers back into their envelope like they were something sacred. Something sealed. “If Ms. Walker contacts the court or files a petition, we’ll revisit guardianship. Until then, Sam is in your care.”

“Of course,” I said, and smiled again. “I’m just the backup.”

The judge gave a small nod.

I thanked him for his time.

We both stood too slowly. I didn’t shake his hand again. I wasn’t sure I could do it without bursting into tears.

Outside, the air smelled like wet concrete and bus exhaust. Downtown Bellingham in March—drizzle clinging to the awnings, clouds pressed low like they were settling in for the week. The trees were still bare. The sidewalks slick. It wasn’t quite winter, not yet spring—just that cold, gray in-between that made everything feel suspended. Like the world hadn’t decided what came next.

I stood in the rain on the steps of the courthouse for a minute, watching it all move around me—the rhythm of people who still had plans, errands, places to be. It felt like standing still in the middle of a clock.

A mother walked by pushing a double stroller. She looked exhausted. I wanted to offer her something—coffee, maybe. Or just a nod. The kind that says, you’re doing great, even if no one’s told you yet.

I opened my bag and checked the folder. Still there. As if it might have vanished, as if someone might’ve come rushing out to say there had been a mistake.

There hadn’t been.

It was mine now. Sam was mine. At least for a while.

Until Meg came back.

Until the court changed its mind.

Until someone remembered I wasn’t ever supposed to be the chosen one.

For anything.

I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t feel wise. I felt like I was wearing someone else’s coat and pretending it fit. But I’d keep it on. Because that’s what you do when someone you love can’t show up.

You show up anyway.