Snow drifted softlyoutside the living room window, blanketing the neighborhood with a fresh coat of hope.
Inside, the Crump kids were scattered around Amayah’s house—Clara and Maisie curled up under the tree with new sketchbooks, Eli helped Luke adjust a bracket on the newly finished attic staircase, Benji, Jonah, and Ruby giggled in the kitchen while eating more of Amayah’s cinnamon rolls.
Christmas felt different this year, Amayah mused.
Fuller.
Louder.
Better.
The morning had been filled with presents being opened. Shredded wrapping paper still lay on the floor, but it didn’t bother her.
There had been too many years with no torn wrapping paper.
She’d made breakfast—Luke had helped. Christmas music played from a small speaker—“Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.”
Tonight, they’d have dinner together.
She’d invited Darren. Yes, Darren.
Everyone had looked at her like she was crazy. But she’d known it was the right thing to do.
The two of them had met together twice since he’d introduced himself. His remorse was genuine—and so was his guilt. In him, Amayah saw someone who was broken and searching for the truth.
So when the door had opened for Amayah to be the hands and feet of Jesus, she’d known exactly what she had to do.
He was a work in progress—but everyone was, including her.
She stood in the living room another moment.
There was still sadness from the Crumps. She knew there was. And that was normal, expected.
These kids missed their mom and parts of their old life. But Amayah’s goal was to give them stability and a safe place for as long as she could.
Her life had looked different the past two weeks—but it had been the most glorious, messy kind of different.
Temporary custody papers lay clipped neatly on the kitchen counter, but every time Amayah walked past them, her heart fluttered with a hope she didn’t dare name yet.
The documents were only the first step—a doorway cracked open, not fully swung wide.
There would still be home visits, background checks, interviews, and a caseworker assigned to evaluate whether her home was stable enough, safe enough, and steady enough for six children who had already lost too much.
She wasn’t naive. Temporary custody didn’t mean forever.
But it meant the city trusted her enough to start the process. It meant the kids wouldn’t be separated. It meant she had a chance—just a chance—to build something lasting.
Temporary felt like a bridge to something more.
The caseworker had also given her an update on Ms. Crump—news that felt equal parts relief and heartbreak.
Police had found her two days after the truth had come out at the church.
She’d been staying in a rundown motel on the edge of town, trying to escape life by using drugs and alcohol to numb her pain.
It was clear that Ms. Crump couldn’t care for herself, much less six children who needed safety, routine, and stability.
For now, the city had determined she was unfit to parent, at least until she entered treatment and completed the long line of steps required to regain custody.
