"It means you're looking for a reason to run. You’re sabotaging yourself." Joanna's voice was soft, but her eyes were sharp. "You've been running since Mateo died, Lucy. Running from this town, running from your grief, running from anyone who might get close enough to hurt you. And now Cal's gotten close, and you're terrified. So you're using this as an excuse to push him away."
"That's not?—"
"Isn't it?" She raised an eyebrow. "If he'd told you about the promise from the beginning, would you have let him in? Or would you have found another reason to keep your distance?"
The question hit harder than I expected. I opened my mouth to argue, to defend myself, but the words wouldn't come.
Because she was right. If Cal had told me the truth that first night, when I'd knocked on his door in terror, would I have accepted his help? Or would I have seen it as pity, as obligation, and pushed him away before he could get close?
"I don't know," I admitted.
"I think you do." Joanna stood up, came around the table, and pulled me into a hug. "You've been so afraid of losing people that you've stopped letting yourself have them. But that's no way to live, honey. That's just surviving. And you deserve more than that."
I leaned into her, letting her hold me the way my mother used to. It was as if she were doing exactly what my mother would have done.
"What if it's not real?" I whispered. "What if I go back to him and it turns out it was just the promise all along?"
"Then at least you'll know." She pulled back, looking me in the eye. "But I don't think that's what you'll find. I think you'll find a man who loves you. A man who's been waiting for you to let him."
The next morning, I was in the middle of feeding Gabrielle when my phone rang. I almost didn't answer, but his name on the screen made me pause. It was Doc Martinez, and he didn’t call unless it was important.
"Lucy." His voice was warm, unhurried as always. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm okay." The lie came out automatically. "Just taking some time."
"I'm calling about the foster licensing process," he continued. "We're moving into the next phase—home study, interviews, the formal application. I wanted togive you a heads up so you can start gathering documents."
"Okay. Thank you."
"A two-parent household isn't required," he said carefully, "but it strengthens the file. When permanency hearings come around, judges like to see stability. However, plenty of single parents do it successfully. I just want you to have all the information."
"I appreciate that."
We talked for a few more minutes about the timeline, the documents I'd need, the questions the social worker might ask. After I hung up, I sat there for a long time with Gabrielle warm in my arms.
A two-parent household.
And only one man came to mind: I thought about Cal assembling the crib at 2 AM, his hands steady and sure. Cal walking the hallway with Gabrielle against his chest, murmuring nonsense words until she fell asleep. Cal looking at her like she was already his daughter, like he'd do anything to protect her.
He'd been there for all of it. Every midnight feeding, every fussy evening, every small milestone. He'd shown up without being asked, stayed without being told to, loved her without any obligation to do so.
We were building something. A family, piece by piece, without ever deciding to.
And I'd run from it because I was afraid it wasn't real.
Maybe Joanna was right. Maybe the promise was just how it started, not what it had become.
I’d finally given in and turned my phone face-up after Doc’s call, telling myself I needed to be reachable in case of emergencies. The truth was, I was tired of hiding. Tired of pretending I could just ignore everything and it would all go away. The text came that afternoon.
When the screen lit up with an unknown number, my stomach dropped.
Contrary to what I thought, the three messages from days earlier weren’t from Cal, but from someone I avoided even more.
Evan.
Unknown Number.
You ruined my life.
