Chapter 10
Poppy
Porch Light by Josh Meloy
“You can’t keep your entire life in your head,” Maggie says, tapping the colorful planner in front of me. “That’s how women snap and end up screaming at strangers in grocery store parking lots.”
I’m sitting in the office at the shop with Maggie, surrounded by stacks of paper, notebooks, my laptop, a new planner, and giant wall calendar Maggie insists I need.
“That’s never been something I’ve struggled with,” I say with a laugh. “What are you talking about?”
Maggie shrugs. “That happens sometimes.”
“Maggie.” I snort laugh. “What the heck?”
“Structure, Poppy. Structure keeps us out of jail,” she says.
I laugh again and shake my head. “Didn’t realize these schedules were that critical.”
She slides a printed, color-coded schedule across the desk. Of course it is. I’d expect nothing less from Maggie. She’s as organized as all get out, and she loves a good project. And today, apparently, I’m her project.
“This is your shop schedule,” she says. “This is the school schedule. This is the Owen schedule. And this”—she taps the last page—“is the Maggie makes sure you eat schedule.”
“I eat,” I protest.
She gives me a look. “You drink coffee and survive on dry toast and whatever you can find. That doesn’t count.”
I laugh, because it’s that or cry. Probably both if I’m being honest.
Maggie sits across from me at the table, planner open, pen tapping thoughtfully as she starts blocking out my days like this is the most natural thing in the world.
She doesn’t just pencil in work and appointments.
She adds reminders to eat. Actual meals.
Lunch. Dinner. She even circles one and writes sit down to eat next to it.
Something tight lodges in my throat.
I’m not used to this. To someone seeing how much I’m carrying and quietly stepping in instead of telling me I’ll figure it out. I’ve been holding everything together for so long that letting someone else help feels foreign. Heavy. Almost too much.
She tells me she set up a meal train for next week so I can focus on transitioning into the new job and packing up the house. Says it like it’s no big deal. Like feeding me and Owen is just another box to check.
I blink hard and stare at the planner, so she doesn’t see how close I am to crying.
“Thank you,” I manage, even though it feels wildly insufficient.
It’s going to be a busy time. Overwhelming. Packing, moving, starting something new. I’m dreading the logistics of it all, the chaos and the unknowns.
But underneath that is something brighter. Lighter.
For the first time in a long while, I’m not doing this alone. And that might be the most exciting part of all.
“I still can’t believe I start Monday,” I murmur.
“You’re gonna be amazing,” Maggie says immediately. “Those kids are lucky to have you. And frankly, this town needs more women who don’t apologize for knowing their shit.”
“I want to help every kid who wants to learn,” I say. “This is a dream.”
“Yes, well,” she says, waving a hand, “we’re the lucky ones to have you.”
Through the doorway, I can see Mack leaning over Maggie’s truck, holding a wrench like she was born with it.
Mack is Walker and Violet’s seventeen-year-old.
She’s a junior in high school and had never been interested in auto class until Maggie told her I would be teaching it.
In the words of Maggie, “No crusty dusty boy is going to try to impress Mack with car repairs. Mack can do it herself.” And she can.
I’ll make sure of that. I’ll make sure everyone knows the basics. It’s important life skills.
“Do I turn this left or right?” Mack calls.
“Lefty loosey,” I yell back. “Righty tighty. Words to live by.”
Mack grins and twists the wrench. “I love this. I can’t wait for auto class.”
“That,” Maggie says, lowering her voice, “is why this matters. She gets to see women fixing things. Leading things. I’m so proud of you, Poppy. Look at everything you’ve done. You’ve really nailed it. I know your momma would be so proud of you.”
My chest tightens. “Don’t make me cry, Maggie.”
“I’m not trying to make you cry, but this matters, sugar.
You matter,” she says as she lays a palm to my cheek.
I lean into her hand because her touch is so soothing.
A mother’s touch. Something I desperately miss.
My mom, Grace, was my biggest cheerleader.
She would have loved that I was doing this.
She always encouraged me to do whatever I wanted.
The glass door to the shop swings open, and a lady comes in, clipboard in hand, a badge clipped to her jacket.
“Poppy Murphy?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, standing. “Can I help you?”
“I’m with Child Protective Services,” she says. “We received a report on Owen Murphy and are doing an investigation.”
I look at her, confused. “Oh. Is this about what Coach Toddy did to him at school? We already spoke with Sheriff Matthews.”
“No, ma’am,” the woman says calmly. “This is a new complaint we just received regarding child neglect.”
Relief rushes through me so fast it almost knocks me dizzy.
Of course it is. Of course it’s about him.
Sully. My mind starts racing ahead, already building defenses, already angry, already tired. And now it’s finally catching up to us.
“Okay,” I say carefully. “Because his father, Sully, hasn’t been involved? There’s an open court—”
The woman hesitates. “I’m sorry, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. The complaint isn’t about the child’s father.”
The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room.
“It’s about you,” she continues. “As the child’s primary caregiver.”
My stomach drops so hard it feels like I might be sick. Me?
Maggie scoffs. “Well, that’s absolutely a lie.”
The word lie cuts sharp through the room.
I stare at her, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for someone to laugh and say this is a mistake. My ears start ringing, and suddenly every sound feels too loud and too far away at the same time.
“That doesn’t make sense,” I whisper. “I take great care of him.”
Maggie steps closer, one hand landing firm and steady on my back.
“Someone filed a report alleging neglect,” the woman says gently. “We’re required to follow up.”
Horror creeps in, cold and heavy. Who would do this? Who would look at my life, at everything I’ve held together with bare hands and exhaustion, and say that I’m the one failing him?
My chest tightens, disbelief giving way to something darker. Fear. Not for me, but for Owen. Because I can handle being judged. But I will not let anyone take him from me.
He has everything he needs, doesn’t he? I mean sure I struggled a bit with groceries there, but he has never missed a meal, and he’s had everything he needs. I’ve made sure of that. I went without before he ever would. I made sure he’s had everything.
“So, just to clarify, you are Poppy?” she asks as she looks over her clipboard.
“I am.”
“And you don’t currently have guardianship over Owen, is that correct? Your father...Sullivan Murphy is his father?”
“I don’t have official guardianship, but I have raised him for the past eleven years,” I tell her.
We never had a formal guardianship because my dad and I had an understanding and we never had the money to file for things like that, nor could I probably ever get him to agree to it without paying him extra. Until now that Weston is helping.
“I see, and where is Sullivan Murphy?” she asks with her pen poised above the clipboard, waiting for my response.
“He doesn’t live here anymore. As I said, I have been Owen’s unofficial guardian since he was a baby when our mother died. I’m not sure where he’s at but I’m in the process of working with an attorney to get full legal custody.”
Thank God for Weston Jessop. I send up a silent prayer for all of his help. And Ollie’s. Ugh. I wish he were here.
The woman steps inside and looks around, taking notes. She watches Mack work on the truck in the bay and looks back at Maggie. “Are you any relation to Owen Murphy?”
Maggie grins proudly and protectively. “Well, I’m his stand-in grandma.
Been in both their lives since before Poppy here was born.
Was good friends with her momma. Did you know Grace Murphy?
The woman was an icon in Bridger Falls. She even has her own memorial park bench here on Main Street.
Had cancer and died over eleven years ago.
Poppy has raised Owen since then, even when she was a kid herself.
She’s the hardest working woman I know. I can tell you that.
There’s no child neglect here. We are all here for Poppy and Owen. ”
“I didn’t know that about your mother,” the woman says softly, looking at me kindly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I say nervously. “I’m sorry, what is your name?”
“I’m Monica,” she says, reaching out to shake my hand with a gentle handshake.
Nothing about this woman screams scary or aggressive.
But just knowing that she could have the power to potentially take my little brother from me makes me practically feral.
Owen means the world to me. So, I am keeping my distance just in case.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m just so confused. Who would make a false report like this?”
“We can’t say who reported. There are concerns about stability with Owen,” she says. “Stable housing, financial support, and possible neglect.”
I open my mouth and literally have no words.
First, a thought passes through me that maybe I am a neglectful sister.
We have been struggling. Maybe this is warranted.
Then I shake my head, exhale, and stand straighter.
No. I have done my very best. This is bullshit.
A lot of people struggle. But Owen is loved and he has everything he needs.