Chapter 1
LUCIA
The morning was supposed to be manageable.
Not easy. Easy was for people with backup spouses, obedient coffee makers, and children who accepted socks as a necessary part of civilization. But manageable.
Gloria was due in twenty minutes, which meant Mia could finish breakfast without being rushed, and Bruno could get his dramatic little hallway walk.
It also meant I could get to the office early enough to review my eight o'clock intake without reading trauma history at a red light like a woman making stellar life choices.
My phone started vibrating at the exact moment Mia's sneaker flew across the hallway.
"Absolutely not," I snapped, lunging for both disasters at once.
The shoe hit the wall with a dull thud. My coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug as I grabbed for my phone on the counter, hot liquid splashing across my wrist.
"Ow. Damn it."
Mia burst into tears immediately. Her shoulders jumped, small and sharp, like my voice had shoved her. Not because I'd cursed. Because I'd used the voice—the sharp one that made her small shoulders jump.
Guilt flashed hard and useless through my chest while my phone kept vibrating in my hand.
I swiped the text open one-handed while reaching for paper towels with the other.
Gloria: I'm so sorry, mija. Mateo's fever got worse overnight. The pediatrician wants me home with him today. I don't know about tomorrow yet.
Not today.
Not Gloria.
Gloria was not just childcare. Gloria was the reason my mornings did not become a hostage negotiation with shoes.
She came before school, moved through our apartment with calm grandmother energy, fed Mia toast cut into triangles, let Bruno pretend he was guarding the entire building, and got my daughter to Little Banyan after the early-drop-off chaos had passed.
Without Gloria, I had two options.
Drag Mia into early drop-off, rushed and brittle and already half-upset before the day began.
Or be late to the office and start my first client session looking like my own case study.
Neither was ideal.
Everything in my body went still for one clean second.
I stared at the text for three full seconds, as if sheer maternal fury could rewrite it into something more convenient.
It did not.
Mia appeared in the doorway wearing one shoe and holding the other like evidence. "Is Gloria coming?"
"No, baby." My voice came out too bright. Clinically unhinged. "Gloria has to take care of Mateo today."
Mia's face fell, and something inside me cracked in exactly the place I did not have time to examine.
"Oh."
"I know." I shoved my phone into my coat pocket before I could check the time again and make myself worse. "But we are adaptable women."
Mia looked down at her one bare foot. "I don't feel adaptable."
"Neither do I, but we're branding it that way."
Assess. Contain. Fix.
"Okay," I said, too brightly. "Change of plan. We're doing early drop-off today."
Mia froze with one sock halfway over her heel. "Early drop-off?"
The way she said it made my chest pinch.
"Just today," I promised, which was apparently the theme of the morning and also a lie I desperately needed to be true. "Gloria can't come, and I have to get to the office."
Mia looked toward the kitchen table, where her toast sat half-finished. "But early drop-off is loud."
I knew.
That was why I avoided it whenever I could.
Early drop-off was not a disaster. Plenty of kids did it every day and survived with all limbs and most feelings intact.
But Mia did better with slow mornings: breakfast at her own pace; Bruno's ridiculous hallway patrol; Gloria's calm voice easing her toward school instead of my sharp one trying not to sound late.
"Mia, breathe for me." I crouched automatically, wiping coffee off my wrist with the edge of the paper towel while she cried harder beside the overturned shoe rack. "Honey, look at me."
"I don't want the sparkly shoes!"
"That's fine. We'll wear different ones."
"You said those matched my dress."
"They did." I grabbed the discarded sneaker before our dog, Bruno, could steal it from the hallway. "Now they don't. Problem solved."
Not my best parenting moment.
Mia's lower lip trembled. Mine probably did too.
The microwave clock glowed 7:14.
My first client was at eight. Early drop-off by 7:40 if traffic cooperated.
Traffic never cooperated. It negotiated.
Outside, a siren wailed somewhere downtown, distant but loud enough to slide beneath my skin while Mia wiped angrily at her cheeks with both fists.
"I wanted the rainbow clips."
Right.
The clips.
I'd forgotten them because last night I'd fallen asleep writing client notes with my laptop open on my chest while Mia watched cartoons beside me.
Because I was tired. Because there was no backup system except me.
I pushed the thought down immediately.
No spiraling.
"Okay." I stood too quickly and nearly sloshed more coffee onto myself. "Rainbow clips. We can do rainbow clips."
My pulse had already started ticking too hard beneath my ribs.
One disruption. That was all it took. One broken routine and the entire morning started collapsing inward like wet paper.
I moved toward the bathroom on instinct, grabbing hair clips from the drawer while Mia sniffled behind me.
My phone buzzed again.
Gloria: I can ask my sister maybe???
No. Absolutely not.
I closed my eyes briefly.
Too many unknowns. Too many variables. Too many people I didn't know around Mia.
"I can't find my other shoe," Mia cried.
Of course you can't.
The thought came sharp and immediate. I hated myself for it instantly.
I forced my voice lower before turning back toward her. "We'll find it."
But even as I said it, my gaze flicked automatically toward the clock again.
7:16.
Already late. Already losing control of the morning.
I found the missing shoe under the couch.
Naturally.
"Mia." I held it up between two fingers while she stood in the middle of the hallway, crying like I'd unearthed evidence of betrayal instead of glitter sneakers. "Why is this under the furniture?"
"I was mad at it."
Reasonable.
I almost laughed. Didn't quite get there.
"Okay." I dropped to one knee in front of her with the shoe and the rainbow clips clenched awkwardly in the same hand. "We need to reset."
Mia sniffled hard enough to hiccup.
"I don't like mornings."
"Honestly? Neither do I."
That earned the faintest flicker of interest through the meltdown.
Good. Tiny progress still counted.
I brushed damp curls back from her forehead and clipped one side carefully into place while my brain kept running calculations underneath the movement.
If I skipped coffee, packed breakfast for the car, and hit every green light downtown, maybe I could still make my first session with three minutes to breathe beforehand.
Maybe.
Mia leaned sideways suddenly. "Too tight."
I loosened the clip immediately.
"Sorry."
The apology came out automatically.
Everything did lately. Sorry for rushing. Sorry for working. Sorry for being distracted while mentally organizing grocery lists, client notes, and overdue laundry.
I slid the second clip into place while Mia climbed into my lap without warning, all warm limbs and leftover tears. My chest tightened because she still did this, still reached for me first, even when the morning felt sharp around the edges.
I wrapped one arm around her automatically while grabbing her backpack with the other.
"Okay," I murmured into her hair. "Shoes. Coat. Launch sequence."
Mia let out a watery little laugh.
"There's no rocket."
"There better be after the morning I'm having."
Another siren cut through the street outside, closer now. The sound bounced off the apartment windows while I shoved folders back into my work bag and nearly knocked my keys off the counter.
Too much noise. Too many moving parts.
Mia's routine chart hung crooked on the fridge where she'd peeled off yesterday's sticker.
? Brush teeth.
? Get dressed.
? Backpack.
? Shoes.
Tiny structured boxes pretending life stayed manageable if you followed enough steps in the right order.
"Mama?" Mia twisted slightly in my arms. "Are you mad?"
The question hit hard enough to stop me cold.
I looked down at her immediately.
Big brown eyes. Careful expression. Watching me the way children watched weather.
"No, baby." I adjusted her backpack strap gently. "I'm stressed. Different thing."
Her forehead wrinkled. "What's stressed?"
I opened my mouth. Nothing useful came out.
How exactly was I supposed to explain adulthood to a six-year-old when I barely felt like I was surviving it myself?
"It means my brain is running too fast," I said finally.
Mia considered that seriously.
"Like squirrels?"
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Short. Real.
"Exactly like squirrels."
By 7:23, I'd reheated the same coffee twice and forgotten to drink it both times.
Mia refused the replacement shoes on principle.
"The sparkly ones were mean to me."
"They're inanimate objects."
"They know what they did."
I pressed my fingers briefly against my eyes.
Coffee smell, strawberry shampoo, damp dog fur, burnt toast from the apartment downstairs. Every scent in the hallway seemed suddenly too strong.
"Okay," I said carefully. "Then we'll wear the boots."
Mia crossed her arms. "The boots make my feet feel trapped."
Of course.
I glanced toward the clock again.
7:24.
My chest tightened another notch.
"Fine. Sandals."
"It's cold."
I stared at her. She stared back.
We both knew she was losing her mind a little.
Unfortunately, so was I.
"Mia." I crouched again, trying to keep my voice level while Bruno barked at something in the hallway and another siren wailed outside. "I need you to pick shoes right now."
Her eyes filled immediately.
Too sharp. Too much pressure.
Damn it.
"I can't think when you talk loud."
Guilt punched straight through me.
I sat back on my heels slowly. "Okay," I said again, softer this time. "You're right. That one's on me."
The apology settled her a little. Not fully, but enough that she stopped spiraling for a second.