Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Kate
We should’ve had dinner an hour ago, but I got caught up with collections at the library. When I pick up Evie, her thoughts are immediately on food. “Mommy,” she says, hopping out of her booster seat, “can we make spaghetti tonight? I’ll stir the noodles.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
I drop my work tote by the door and hang her backpack on the hook. She kicks off her sneakers, missing the rug entirely.
“Close enough,” I say.
She giggles and runs straight for the kitchen, dragging a chair across the floor to the counter. I set a pot of water on the stove, half-listening as she hums a made-up song about spaghetti and butterflies.
For a few precious minutes, everything feels normal—simple, quiet. Evie waves a wooden spoon like a baton. “Do you think spaghetti gets dizzy when we stir it?”
“Spaghetti doesn’t have a brain, so probably not,” I say, handing her the box of noodles.
She beams. “It’s gonna be delicious.”
I’m stirring the pasta when a knock sounds at the front door.
Evie freezes mid-song. “Is it pizza?”
“No, sweetie.” My brows knit. “We didn’t order anything.”
She hops down from her chair and trails after me.
The knocking comes again—firmer this time.
When I open the door, a man in a navy windbreaker stands there, holding an envelope. He’s not from around here; the polite smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Katherine Prescott?”
“Yes?”
He hands me the envelope. “You’ve been served, ma’am. Have a good evening.”
My stomach drops. The paper feels too heavy in my hands.
“Mommy?” Evie tugs at my sleeve. “What’s that?”
I swallow hard, forcing a calm smile. “Nothing you need to worry about, baby. Go wash your hands, okay? Dinner’s almost ready.”
She nods and runs back toward the kitchen, humming again—blissfully unaware of the way my heart is suddenly trying to claw its way out of my chest.
I close the door and lean against it for a second, staring down at the envelope. My fingers tremble as I tear it open.
Petition for Modification of Custody
The words blur.
Petitioner: Daniel McMichael
Respondent: Katherine Prescott
Minor Child: Evelyn Prescott
Relief Requested: Modification of existing custody order to grant the Petitioner and Respondent joint legal and physical custody of the minor child.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
Daniel. The man who left when I was five months pregnant. The man who never reaches out first to set up visits, who has never sent more money than the bare court-ordered minimum and has forgotten her birthday twice. The man who moved to Roanoke with his shiny new wife and shiny new life.
I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles ache.
The spaghetti bubbles over on the stove, hissing against the burner. The smell hits sharp and sour, but I can’t move. I can’t think past the roar in my ears.
When Evie reappears, soap bubbles on her hands, her smile knocks the air right out of me.
“Mommy, the water’s too hot.”
I blink, shake myself back, and rush to the pot. “I’ve got it, sweetheart.”
I turn off the burner and move the pot to the sink. Then I stop to scoop her up, pressing a kiss to her forehead like I can somehow protect her from what’s coming. “Everything’s okay.”
“Are you crying?” she asks, tilting her head.
I force a laugh. “Just the onions.”
She narrows her eyes, five-year-old skepticism on full display. “We’re not cooking onions.”
“Right. Then…the garlic.”
She studies me for a second, then leans in and kisses my cheek. “It’s okay, Mommy. I’ll help you fix it.”
That’s what undoes me. The innocence and trust. The way she says fix it as if everything in the world could be fixed with enough love and determination.
I turn away before she can see the tears spill over, blinking fast as I pour the sauce onto the noodles.