30. April 4, Monday
Chapter thirty
Zoey
Zoey had no idea how long she’d been asleep when the ringing started.
It tunneled into her dream—some muddled mess of ice, sirens, missing puppies, and a dog that kept slipping out of her hands—as a shrill, insistent drip.
It took her brain a good five seconds to realize it wasn’t part of the nightmare.
It was coming from the real world.
From somewhere under her.
Her cheek was pressed against something hard and cool. Polished wood. Her neck throbbed in protest as she lifted her head.
The kitchen.
Right.
She’d cried herself sideways at the kitchen table and apparently passed out on it like a very sad, undercaffeinated raccoon.
The phone kept buzzing in her pocket, muffled and annoyed.
Zoey sat up, flinching as a muscle in her back spasmed, and dug it out. The screen glowed too brightly in the dim morning kitchen.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
It was 8:03 a.m. on a Monday morning.
For Pete’s sake. Who called this early unless someone was dead, dying, or trying to sell her an extended warranty?
Her stomach clenched.
Christian.
Fido.
The puppies.
Social workers.
Every possible disaster shoved itself forward at once.
She swiped to answer. “Hello?”
Her voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel and then left in a parking lot overnight.
“Ms. Williams?” A woman’s voice, crisp and professional, with the kind of polished cadence that made Zoey picture blazers, neat files, and color-coded tabs.
“Yes,” Zoey said, heart kicking up. “This is her. Sorry, I…my voice is rough in the morning.”
“I apologize for the early call. I was trying to catch you before your workday gets going. This is Hanna Lin with the Department of Children and Families. I’ve been reviewing your application, home study reports, and other licensing documents. I’m also part of Jayden’s case team.”
Zoey’s stomach dropped and soared at the same time. She scrambled upright, back hitting the chair, pulse pounding.
“Oh,” she said, brain trying to produce twenty appropriate responses at once and failing all of them. “Hi. Yes. Hi. I…um. Nice to meet you. Over the phone. Sorry, I’m not usually this…” She glanced at the empty coffee maker. “Yeah.”
A tiny pause on the other end, then, “Completely understandable.”
Hanna didn’t sound amused, exactly, but there was no judgment in it either.
Just neutral.
Terrifyingly neutral.
“I wanted to introduce myself now that I’ve had a chance to review your licensing file and Jayden’s current case status,” Hanna continued. “Before expectations get ahead of reality, I thought it was important we speak.”
Expectations.
The word landed with a small, sharp sting.
“Of course,” Zoey said, straightening like Hanna could see her slumped at the table. “I appreciate you calling. I’m excited to get things moving.”
“Babs has spoken very highly of you. So has Ashley.”
Warmth pricked behind Zoey’s eyes. “They’re good people.”
“They are,” Hanna agreed. “And I want to say up front that your file, on paper, is very strong. Your home study was thorough. Your references were excellent. Your MAPP instructors had very positive things to say about your engagement in the classes.”
Zoey exhaled slowly.
Okay. Good words.
Strong. Thorough. Excellent. Positive.
Maybe this was fine.
Maybe this was the call where Hanna said, Congratulations, we think you’re exactly the right person to love this specific boy whose Spider-Man cup is already sitting in your cabinet because you are normal and reasonable and definitely not emotionally unhinged.
“However,” Hanna said gently, because obviously the universe hated her, “because Jayden’s case has unique complexities, I need to be candid about some concerns I have regarding this specific match.”
The bottom dropped out of Zoey’s stomach.
“Concerns,” she repeated, forcing the word past the dryness in her throat.
“Yes. My job is to be as protective of these kids as possible. That means asking difficult questions before we move too far down any path.”
Zoey’s grip tightened around the phone. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Ask away.”
She braced for something concrete. Square footage. Fire extinguishers. A missed signature on page twelve. Maybe the fact that her hallway closet currently contained enough craft supplies to bury a small Victorian child.
Instead, Hanna said, “The first issue is permanency. Jayden is not legally free for adoption. His current plan still includes reunification work, and there are relatives and family supports we’re continuing to assess.”
Zoey went very still. “Oh,” she whispered.
“I know you understand that in theory. Everyone who completes the training hears those words. But I want to be very clear about what they mean in practice. Jayden may need a foster placement. He may need respite. He may need someone safe and consistent while his mother continues working her plan. He may eventually need an adoptive resource. But those are not the same thing, and we are not at the last one yet.”
Not legally free.
Not adoptive resource.
Not there yet.
Zoey swallowed hard. “I know foster care is supposed to prioritize reunification when it’s safe.”
“Yes,” Hanna said. “And I also know, from your file, that you’ve been very honest about hoping for foster-to-adopt.
That’s not wrong. Many applicants come to us with that hope.
But with this child, at this moment, I need to make sure any adult we consider can support the actual case goal, not the hoped-for ending. ”
The words cut because they were fair.
Horribly, brutally fair.
Zoey stared at a scratch in the tabletop.
“I would never want to undermine his mother,” she said, voice thin. “Or make him feel like he had to choose.”
“I believe you. But feelings get complicated fast. Especially when a child-specific hope has already formed.”
Heat flared under Zoey’s skin. “A child-specific hope?”
“From what I see in the notes, and from the way people talk about your relationship with him, your bond with Jayden appears unusually focused for this stage,” Hanna said carefully.
“You met him through group home visits, then saw him regularly through the rink clinics. You’ve expressed to staff that you’d be open to him specifically.
You’ve begun imagining what life with him might look like. Is that accurate?”
The precision pierced.
Zoey’s gaze drifted, helplessly, to the upper cabinet.
Behind the glass, half-hidden behind mismatched mugs, sat the Spider-Man cup she’d bought weeks ago. Waiting. Ridiculous. Hopeful.
“I haven’t painted his name on a wall or anything,” Zoey said, trying for humor and landing nowhere near it. “But yes. I’ve hoped. A lot. He’s special.”
“Of course, he is,” Hanna said quietly. “All of my kids are special. That’s part of why we have to be careful. The connection you feel is understandable. I’m not questioning whether you care about him. I’m questioning whether that care could create blind spots…for you, for us, or for Jayden.”
Blind spots.
Christian on the ice flashed behind her eyes.
Ilya’s broken voice in the hallway.
I saw something was wrong.
I told him to go in.
“What kind of blind spots?” Zoey asked.
“Children can present very differently in structured, time-limited settings,” Hanna explained.
“Volunteer visits. Special events. One-on-one mentorship. Especially children who’ve been through trauma.
They can be charming, compliant, funny, guarded, shut down, or all of those things in the same hour.
They may keep themselves together until they feel safe enough to fall apart. ”
Zoey swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I know that. The training—”
“Doing the classes is one thing,” Hanna said, still gentle.
“Living it, day in and day out, is another. Jayden’s file includes multiple disruptions.
Attachment wounds. Big grief. Unpredictable reactions to transitions.
You’ve seen glimpses of those things, but you haven’t had to hold them at two in the morning yet. ”
Zoey’s fingers dug into her thigh.
“I don’t think it’s going to be all unicorns and show ponies,” she said, hating how defensive and fragile she sounded. “I know he’s been through hell. I’ve talked to him when he’s shut down. I’ve seen him angry.”
“And then you went home,” Hanna noted, not unkindly.
“You got to regroup. You didn’t have to sleep down the hall while he had nightmares.
You didn’t have to get up after the third bedwetting incident that week.
You didn’t have to face him the morning after he told you he hated you because you set a limit he needed.
That’s the difference I’m asking you to sit with. ”
A hot tear slipped down Zoey’s cheek. She swiped it away angrily.
The worst part was that Hanna didn’t sound cruel.
Cruel would be easier.
Hanna sounded like a woman who had sat with too many children after adults promised more than they could actually give.
“The second concern,” Hanna continued, “is about your work. Your role is unique.”
Zoey bit her tongue.
“You’re in a public-facing position with a professional hockey team. You coordinate community events. You’re sometimes on the ice, in photographs, in proximity to cameras and media. You work irregular hours, including evenings and weekends, and you sometimes travel with the team. Is that accurate?”
“Yes,” Zoey said stiffly.
“In general, we don’t disqualify foster parents for having demanding careers. But with Jayden specifically, I have to weigh that against his need for stability, predictability, and privacy. Foster children should not have their faces on social media. They should not become content.”
Zoey flinched, thinking of the million reminders that every Little Cyclones photo had to be cleared by Babs’s team before anything went public.
“I wouldn’t—” she began.