“Usually within seven to ten days,” she says. “Sometimes quicker with little ones.”
My heart stutters.
Erin flips the folder open. “They’re not expecting perfection. They just need to see she has a safe, stable home.”
I swallow hard. “I live with roommates.”
She nods sympathetically. “That’s the part we’d have trouble approving, long term, not short term. Multiple unrelated adults in a shared space is considered overcrowded for a toddler if it’s too small.”
My chest sinks.
“But,” she says quickly, reassuringly, “you have a grace period. Because you’re immediate family, they’ll allow temporary placement while you secure appropriate housing.”
“How long?” I whisper.
“Typically, thirty days before the formal OCFS home certification,” Erin explains. “That’s what they consider a realistic timeline to show Lucy has her own sleeping space in a stable home.”
Thirty days to find a home, two weeks before I have to be back to school.
“That means,” she continues gently, “a bedroom or clearly designated area just for her. A bed. Safe environment. No unsafe occupants. Something they can document as consistent.”
I think immediately of the girls’ messages. The bookstore apartment. The Puck Pad.
“If you can show that by the time they visit,” Erin says softly, “you’re golden. They want kinship to work. They root for it.”
I glance down at Lucy, “So we have time.”
Erin nods. “Time, support, and priority as her sister. Tomorrow we’ll start the paperwork for transfer, and note that housing is already being arranged.”
Lucy shifts in her sleep, pressing closer to me, trusting me with a life I didn’t even know was this tethered to mine.
One night to breathe. One night to prepare. One night to face the ghosts before I take a child who deserves better than what raised me, home…wherever that may be.
Claudia squeezes my hand when I tell her what I need to do. She doesn’t argue. She just nods like she understands exactly why some doors can’t stay open forever when there’s too much left in the room as you’re planning to build something new.
The hospital room is harsh and bright when I step inside.
My mother lies in the bed, wrist cuffed loosely to the rail, her face bruised, stitched, swollen. She looks different from how I remember, but the venom in her eyes is exactly the same.
“So, you finally show up,” she sneers.
I stand at the foot of the bed, hands steady for once.
“I hope you get the help you need,” I say calmly. “But you’re not getting Lucy back, ever.”
Her mouth twists, rage flashing instantly. “You little bitch,” she spits. “You always thought you were better than us.”
The words land, but they don’t hurt the way they used to.Not anymore.
I hold her gaze and keep my voice quiet and firm. “I didn’t think I was better, I knew.” She goes silent, stunned, as I turn toward the door. “And so will Lucy.”
I should have done this last night to get it over with, but I couldn’t. I’d barely made it to the hospital by eleven, adrenalineand shock carried me through fluorescent hallways while Lucy was asleep and Mom was out of surgery. She broke her leg, and it had to be set. She got lucky.
Now it’s daylight, no hiding from what’s next.
Erin picks me up just after eight. Lucy is content staying with Claudia, who is showing her pictures of Savannah. She looked at me like she didn’t believe I’d be back, even though I promised I would be. That too is something I remember. I won’t ever let her down.
The town is quiet in that early way, streets still damp from frost, smoke curling lazily from chimneys that probably burn more cigarettes than firewood. I sit in the passenger seat with Lucy’s empty backpack on my lap like proof of where we’re headed. Erin drives slowly, giving me space I didn’t ask for, but clearly need.
