"You don't. You never did." Angelina pulls her closer, tucking Chesca's head under her chin. "But he's trying to use the courts, the legal system, to make me share you with him."
"I don't want to go with him." Chesca's fingers grip her mother's shirt so tight I can see the fabric strain. "Mamma, I don't want to—"
"You won't." My voice cuts through her rising panic. Low, steady, absolute. "You're not going anywhere."
Chesca twists to look at me. Her chin trembles. Her eyes are wet with lashes clumped together.
"Promise?"
I don't hesitate. "I promise."
"But how? If he—"
"I'll keep you safe." I settle my hand on her shoulder, gentle and careful, the way I'd handle something precious. "Both of you. That's my job."
"Your job?"
"My most important job."
She stares at me for a long moment, reading me the way children read adults. Looking for lies, for false comfort, for the gap between what someone says and what they mean.
Whatever she sees makes her exhale. Her shoulders drop.
"Okay." She nods once, small and serious. "Okay."
She burrows between us with Aaron Bear crushed against her chest. One small hand finds my arm like it's the most natural thing in the world. Her breathing slowly steadies. The trembling in her small body eases by degrees until she's heavy and warm between us, taking up more space than her size should allow.
My eyes meet Angelina's over her daughter's head.
Neither of us says what we're both thinking.
An hour later, I'm standing at the stove.
"You're putting vegetables in eggs again."
I tilt the pan, watching the eggs fold over on themselves. "You need fiber."
"I need cheese." Angelina's voice carries that particular edge of sleepy protest she gets before her second cup of coffee. "There's a difference."
"Cole puts vegetables in everything." Chesca doesn't look up from the purple paper in her hands, tongue poking out as she works the creases.
"She's not wrong." I slide the eggs onto plates and add bacon from the second pan.
Soft light slants through the windows, catching the steam rising from the food, the dust motes drifting lazy in the air. Bacon grease pops in the pan behind me. Chesca's paper rustles as she folds.
This is what it could be, every morning.
I carry the plates to the counter. Angelina's bare feet are pale against the dark tile, one of my t-shirts hanging loose on her shoulders. The gray one she claimed three days ago and hasn't given back. She watches me approach, and the tension in my shoulders eases.
"Thank you." She takes the plate with her fork already in hand.
"Eat the spinach."
"I'm eating around the spinach."
"You're impossible."
"You're bossy." But she's smiling, the real smile that reaches her eyes, the one I've seen exactly seven times and am now actively counting.