"Pope wants to meet with you about coming up with a full family resource center." Caleb smiles. "With you as director, naturally."
"But why? Why now?" My voice sounds small even to myself.
"Does it matter?" Caleb shrugs. "The point is, your program is safe. More than safe, it's funded in perpetuity."
I press my hands against my eyes, unexpected tears threatening. After weeks of frantic fundraising and imminent failure, this miracle seems almost suspicious.
"I should be jumping for joy." My laugh sounds watery. "Instead, I'm sitting here wondering what the catch is. Forgive me for my cynicism. Life keeps pulling the rug out from under me lately."
Because isn’t there always one? Every time something good has landed in my lap, it’s come with strings I didn’t see until they tangled tight. After years of scraping by, I don’t even know how to trust the idea of something working out so perfectly.
Caleb waves a hand, brushing off my doubt. "No catch, Janie."
I set my coffee cup down on the edge of Caleb's desk and sit back. "Wow," is all I can say. At least one of my stressors has been eliminated. Better that than my job.
"I mean, a full resource center for community outreach. How amazing is that, Janie? The best thing that ever could have happened was losing the Bransons."
I stumble back to my office in a daze, my mind still trying to process Caleb's words. Twenty million dollars. An anonymous donor.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I sink into my chair, staring at the papers spread across my desk. Budget projections I'd stayed up rewriting. Staffing cuts I'd agonized over. All of it is irrelevant.
"What just happened?" I whisper to the empty room.
My fingers tremble as I trace the outline of theproposal for a donor dinner I have next week. Based on what Caleb just told me, I don't even need to bother.
A family resource center with me as director. It's the career I've worked toward since college, before even Northwestern, suddenly right in front of me.
A win in a sea of losses.
But the warmth doesn't spread. Instead, it sits isolated, surrounded by the cold reality of everything else falling apart.
I pull out my phone, scrolling to the last text from Warren.
Please talk to me.
The whiplash is sharp enough to make me dizzy. Professionally, I've been handed stability and expansion beyond my wildest hopes. Personally, my world lies in smoking ruins.
I close my eyes, picturing Beckett's face when Warren lifted him onto his shoulders at the Christmas village. The way Warren's fingers felt against mine when we decorated the tree together. The quiet moments by the fire when I let myself believe we could be a family.
I open my desk drawer and pull out the photo Beckett drew last week of three stick figures holding hands. Mommy, Beckett, and Warren. A family that existed only briefly, through the eyes of a child. And the hopes of his mom.
The contrast carves me open. One life rising, another dead before it ever had a chance.
The conference roomlights have dimmed to their evening setting, but I can't bring myself to leave. My laptop screen blazes brightly.
Everyone else has gone home. It’s just me and three stacks of paper that somehow represent my fractured life. I don't need to scramble to fill the hole left by the Bransons, so why am I still here?
I need to go pick up Beckett.
I drag my fingers across the custody petition. Thick legal pages covered in cold, clinical language that reduces my son to an asset being divided. My throat tightens as I scan phrases like "primary residential parent" and "visitation schedule."
The second pile contains my work files..
And the third, the miracle. Twenty million dollars from nowhere dropped into my lap like magic.
I trace the edge of the proposal with my fingertip, remembering the look on Caleb’s face. Pure excitement.
So why am I sick to my stomach?