“Getting other people to do cool stuff for you,” Cal explains. “And you, my friend, are a natural.”
“I just asked nicely,” Noah says.
“Exactly,” Silas rumbles from the back. “Most people forget the ‘nicely’ part. You didn’t. That’s skill.”
“And Liam,” Jace adds, “the way you organized your backpack this morning? Color-coded folders, everything labeled, gym shoes in a separate bag? I’ve worked with grown men who can’t manage that level of preparation. You’re already ahead of the game.”
I watch my serious boy process this, see a small smile tug at his lips.
“So you see,” Cal says, sitting back, “you’re both good at lots of things. The other kids are going to figure that out pretty quickly.”
“And if they don’t?” Liam asks.
“Then they’re idiots,” Silas says flatly.
“Silas,” I hiss. “Language.”
“What? It’s accurate.”
“They’re five.”
“Old enough to learn that some people are idiots.” But there’s warmth underneath the gravel. “Point is, boys, you’re gonna be fine. Better than fine.”
“And if anything bad happens,” Jace adds, his hands steady on the wheel, “that bad thing would have to get through us first. All of us. Your mom, Uncle Charles, Aunt Sienna, me, Cal, Silas—you’ve got an army. You’re not going into this alone.”
Noah’s grin returns, bright and brave. Liam nods once, that careful decision-making process complete.
And I feel my chest crack open a little more.
Because they’re giving my sons exactly what they need—concrete reassurance mixed with gentle humor, meeting them where they are instead of where adults think they should be.
23
PARKER
The school looks like something out of a catalogue—all red brick and climbing ivy, children in crisp uniforms being ushered through heavy wooden doors by parents who smell like old money and older secrets.
Cal pulls the SUV to a smooth stop in the circular drive. Behind us, Charles’s vehicle mirrors the movement with precision. The security detail fans out—motorcycles positioning at strategic points, guards taking up posts that look casual but are anything but.
I unbuckle with shaking hands.
“Ready?” Cal asks from the driver’s seat, already opening his door.
I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready for this—watching my babies walk into a world I can’t control, can’t protect them from, can’t follow them into.
But I nod anyway because that’s what mothers do.
We all pile out. The boys tumble from the back seat with their backpacks and their nervous energy, immediately joined by Lottie and Jimmy, who bounce over from Charles’s vehicle with the resilience of children who’ve done this before.
Charles appears at my side, Sienna on his other arm. “They’ll be great,” he says quietly.
“I know.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
We walk toward the entrance as a unit—Charles and Sienna with their children, me with mine, and flanking us like living shields, three men in dark suits who look like exactly what they are: dangerous people pretending to be civilized.
At the steps, reality crashes into me. My boys are going inside. Without me. Into classrooms and hallways, and a whole world where I can’t reach them.
“Okay, my loves.” I kneel down, not caring that my pencil skirt wasn’t designed for this, that my carefully styled hair is probably coming loose. “Remember what we talked about?”
