Kate
Evie was cheerful when I dropped her off at my mom’s this morning before I came into the library. She turned around at the last second and shouted, “Love you, Mommy!” loud enough for everyone in the neighborhood to hear. I smiled until she disappeared inside, then sat in the car for a full minute.
Now, here, in the quiet before the opening rush, I try to rebuild that calm. One shelf at a time.
My phone on the counter buzzes, cutting through the silence. It’s my lawyer. My stomach dips before I even answer.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Prescott? It’s MichaelGreene.”
“Oh—yes, hi.” I perch on the edge of the stool behind the desk, trying to sound collected. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” he says, tone professional but not unkind. “I wanted to touch base after receiving new documents from Mr. McMichael’s attorney late yesterday.”
My grip tightens on my phone. “New documents?”
“They’ve set a date for mediation. I’ll send everything over here shortly for your review. We have about eight weeks unless we can negotiate prior.”
Eight weeks. The words echo like a countdown clock starting.
“Okay,” I say, but my voice sounds small. “And…what does that mean exactly?”
“It means he’s still serious about pursuing it. His attorney’s leaning hard on his financial position and family structure.”
Of course they are.
“I see.”
“I’ve begun drafting everything,” he continues, “but I do want you to be prepared. The optics can matter in these cases. Daniel’s attorney is painting a very tidy picture—gainfully employed, married, no criminal record, active community ties.”
Each phrase chips away at me a little more.Tidy picturemy ass.
Meanwhile, I’m the one juggling overdue bills and sleep-deprived mornings, hoping Evie doesn’t notice it all.
The lawyer’s voice softens. “Ms. Prescott, none of that changes the fact that you’ve been Evie’s sole caretaker for almost five years. The mediator will see that. You have a good case, I promise. But we’ll need to be strategic.”
“Strategic,” I repeat. “Right.”
“We’ll talk again soon. Take care of yourself, Ms. Prescott.”
When the call ends, the silence rushes back in.
For a few seconds, I just sit there—hands trembling, pulse racing—staring at the books lined neatly on the shelves. Everything in here is ordered, labeled. I wish life outside worked that way.
My throat burns, but I swallow hard and push to my feet. The clock reads 8:33. Twenty-seven minutes until opening.
I straighten a stack of bookmarks on the counter, wipe down the front desk, and pull a few stray returns from the bin. Muscle memory, motion, distraction.
But the words won’t stop circling.Married. Financially stable. Family structure.
I run a finger along the spine of a picture book and whisper under my breath, “Evie doesn’t need a perfect life. She just needs me.”
And yet, deep down, a quieter voice asks the question I hate most—what if that’s not enough anymore?
Chapter sixteen
Cam
