Chapter 4 #2
“How can I ever thank you all for—”
“You don’t. You just show up when you think you’re needed, hell, you’re already doing that.”
“For a paycheck.” I sniff.
“You can’t buy loyalty, Hildy.” She sighs. “As I said, you’re already doing that.”
“She’s good for the night,” Erin says quietly as she enters. “Vitals are steady. They’ll keep her until morning just to be safe.”
I nod, smoothing Lucy’s hair back gently.
Erin pulls the chair closer and lowers her voice. “I want to walk you through what OCFS is going to look for so you’re not blindsided.”
My stomach tightens.
“This isn’t permanent custody yet,” she reminds me gently. “It’s an emergency kinship placement. But they will do a home visit.”
“How soon?” I ask.
“Usually within seven to ten days,” she says. “Sometimes quicker with little ones.”
My heart stutters.
Erin flips the folder open. “They’re not expecting perfection. They just need to see she has a safe, stable home.”
I swallow hard. “I live with roommates.”
She nods sympathetically. “That’s the part we’d have trouble approving, long term, not short term. Multiple unrelated adults in a shared space is considered overcrowded for a toddler if it’s too small.”
My chest sinks.
“But,” she says quickly, reassuringly, “you have a grace period. Because you’re immediate family, they’ll allow temporary placement while you secure appropriate housing.”
“How long?” I whisper.
“Typically, thirty days before the formal OCFS home certification,” Erin explains. “That’s what they consider a realistic timeline to show Lucy has her own sleeping space in a stable home.”
Thirty days to find a home, two weeks before I have to be back to school.
“That means,” she continues gently, “a bedroom or clearly designated area just for her. A bed. Safe environment. No unsafe occupants. Something they can document as consistent.”
I think immediately of the girls’ messages. The bookstore apartment. The Puck Pad.
“If you can show that by the time they visit,” Erin says softly, “you’re golden. They want kinship to work. They root for it.”
I glance down at Lucy, “So we have time.”
Erin nods. “Time, support, and priority as her sister. Tomorrow we’ll start the paperwork for transfer, and note that housing is already being arranged.”
Lucy shifts in her sleep, pressing closer to me, trusting me with a life I didn’t even know was this tethered to mine.
One night to breathe. One night to prepare. One night to face the ghosts before I take a child who deserves better than what raised me, home… wherever that may be.
Claudia squeezes my hand when I tell her what I need to do. She doesn’t argue. She just nods like she understands exactly why some doors can’t stay open forever when there’s too much left in the room as you’re planning to build something new.
The hospital room is harsh and bright when I step inside.
My mother lies in the bed, wrist cuffed loosely to the rail, her face bruised, stitched, swollen. She looks different from how I remember, but the venom in her eyes is exactly the same.
“So, you finally show up,” she sneers.
I stand at the foot of the bed, hands steady for once.
“I hope you get the help you need,” I say calmly. “But you’re not getting Lucy back, ever.”
Her mouth twists, rage flashing instantly. “You little bitch,” she spits. “You always thought you were better than us.”
The words land, but they don’t hurt the way they used to. Not anymore.
I hold her gaze and keep my voice quiet and firm. “I didn’t think I was better, I knew.” She goes silent, stunned, as I turn toward the door. “And so will Lucy.”
I should have done this last night to get it over with, but I couldn’t. I’d barely made it to the hospital by eleven, adrenaline and shock carried me through fluorescent hallways while Lucy was asleep and Mom was out of surgery. She broke her leg, and it had to be set. She got lucky.
Now it’s daylight, no hiding from what’s next.
Erin picks me up just after eight. Lucy is content staying with Claudia, who is showing her pictures of Savannah. She looked at me like she didn’t believe I’d be back, even though I promised I would be. That too is something I remember. I won’t ever let her down.
The town is quiet in that early way, streets still damp from frost, smoke curling lazily from chimneys that probably burn more cigarettes than firewood.
I sit in the passenger seat with Lucy’s empty backpack on my lap like proof of where we’re headed.
Erin drives slowly, giving me space I didn’t ask for, but clearly need.
“We used to walk this way to school,” she says, voice soft as we pass the long stretch of cracked sidewalk lining Route 13.
I stare out the window. “With the busted chain link fence.”
She smiles faintly. “And that dog that tried to eat your shoelaces.”
I huff a breath that almost sounds like laughter. God, mornings back then felt endless. Me sprinting from the trailer park half awake, hoping my clothes didn’t smell like Grandma’s beer-soaked living room. Erin always crisp and organized, hair brushed, binder neat, the kind of girl teachers loved.
We pass the old gas station where I used to work weekends.
“You’d still be in your uniform some days,” Erin says.
“Couldn’t afford not to work,” I murmur.
The road curves, and a white house with a deep porch slides into view. I can picture the yellow mums in the flowerbeds.
Erin nods toward it. “My aunt’s place.” I glance over. “I stayed there sophomore year,” she adds quietly. “When my mom disappeared for a while.”
I remember. The whispered hallway talk. The way Erin pretended it was temporary, even when we both knew it wasn’t. “You fed me dinner more than once.”
She laughs gently. “You looked like a starving kitten.”
Because I was.
We leave the paved roads behind, tires crunching onto gravel as the trailer park comes into view, faded siding and rusted porches lined up like lost hope.
Morning light does nothing to soften it.
The porch light still flickers out of habit even though the sun’s already up, buzzing like it’s annoyed to still be part of this place.
I haven’t been here in years, but my body remembers every warped step, every sag in the floor when I push the door open without knocking.
She’s in her recliner, TV blaring some game show rerun, a half-empty bottle tipped between her knees even at this hour.
“Well, look who got too good to visit,” she slurs.
I don’t bother to respond.
Erin hangs back near the door, silent support, while I open the folded paper Erin gave me. Lucy’s list.
I walk to the tiny bedroom that used to be mine, that’s now hers, and read it once before I start gathering things:
Pink blanket with the bunny
White rabbit “Flopsy”
Blue shoes with stars
Purple night light
Mommy’s picture from the dresser
Hildy’s pictures
The book with the red dog (Good Dog, Bad Day)
My yellow cup
Sparkle sweater
Hair bows in the bathroom
Each item lands like a tiny punch to the chest. Proof she lives here. Proof she built comfort out of scraps just like I did.
I grab everything she asked for, folding the blanket tight, tucking Flopsy under my arm, and scooping up the shoes from beneath the bed. The night light is still plugged in. The sparkly sweater was draped over a chair, as if she planned to wear it again.
“You ain’t takin’ that kid,” Grandma calls after me. “She’s your mama’s baby.”
I stop in the doorway, pulse roaring in my ears.
“She’s not safe here,” I say quietly.
Grandma laughs, ugly and wet. “You came from the same place, and you turned out fine.”
Fine.
I look around the trailer in full daylight now. The ashtray overflowing. Beer bottles lined up like decoration. Unpaid bills stacked on the counter next to Lucy’s coloring book.
“I turned out better than fine because I left,” I tell her. “Lucy will do the same.”
She mutters something I don’t catch as I walk out with Lucy’s bag, morning air hitting my lungs sharp and cold, carrying her things away from the place that almost swallowed me whole.
“You did amazing,” Erin says quietly.