Jewel squealed, delighted, as if she approved of my murder vows.
“Good,” I muttered, bouncing her gently. “Glad we understand each other.”
I sat with her, rocking gently, my thoughts drifting. If I felt this protective over one baby, what would it mean to protect women and kids who had no one else? Survivors like me, like the ones I’d read about, who needed a safe place to land? Jewel wasn’t just a baby—she was proof. Proof that new beginnings were possible. And that was what I wanted my future to be about. Not diapers or midnight feedings, but giving people their second chance.
A knock came at the front door, and I startled so hard I almost dropped Jewel. Maria woke up with a very lady-like grunt and stretched before heading for the door. In swept a tall, lithe woman with red hair and blue eyes, balancing a casserole dish, a canvas tote, and a basket of baby supplies, as if she were single-handedly provisioning a small country.
Maria lit up. “Hannah!”
I freeze. Oh. Shit.
Because this wasn’t just any grandma barging in with casseroles and Pampers. This wasHannah Mills. Mac and Dalton’s mother. The woman people mentioned in the clubhouse with reverence and a little fear. The one I tended to avoid, though I would never admit it.
Hannah leaned down to kiss Maria’s cheek, eyes sharp and kind all at once. She set her haul on the counter, and I swear half the kitchen rattled under the weight.
“New mom care package,” Hannah announced briskly. “Soup, burp cloths, lanolin cream—don’t ask, just use it. And a little something for you too.”
Maria’s eyes glistened as she rooted through the bags, laughing softly. “You didn’t have to—”
“Of course I did,” Hannah cut her off. “You’re family. We take care of family.”
Her gaze shifted then, landing on me. Jewel squirmed in my arms, drooling happily down my shoulder. Hannah’s eyebrow arched. “Hi, Holly. Seems you can’t outrun me forever. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Shit. I had been caught.
“Hi,” I manage. “All lies you’ve heard. Unless they were flattering, then absolutely true.”
Her mouth twitched, like I’d passed a test. She held out her arms. I hesitated, then surrendered Jewel carefully. Hannahsettled the baby with practiced ease, kissed her forehead, then looked back at me.
“Maria told me a little about your plan.”
Maria looked up at her name, pausing her hunt for a vase to put the pretty flowers Hannah had brought in. “I hope that’s ok.”
My mouth went dry. “Uh…yeah. It’s fine. Just college, you know. Hopefully. If the mailbox ever decides to cooperate.”
Hannah smirked, but not unkindly. “And after that?”
I swallowed, glancing at Maria, who was watching me with an encouraging smile. “Well, actually. I…I’ve got this idea. A shelter. For women. And kids. Survivors. A place where people don’t have to feel like they’re broken.”
The words tumbled out before I could stop them, and my cheeks burned. I hadn’t really told a lot of people about this, outside of Maria and my parents. But something about Hannah just dragged it out of me. I waited for her to laugh, or pat me on the head, or tell me I was too young.
Instead, her expression sharpened. “Good. We need more women thinking that way. You’ve got passion, and Maria says you’re smart.” She leaned in slightly. “Don’t wait until you’re thirty. Start building now. Start small. Think big. You’re not alone in this. Remember that.”
Heat prickled behind my eyes. Someone was taking me seriously. Someone who wasn’t Maria.
I nodded. “Ok. Yeah. I can do that.”
Hannah’s smile was fierce. “I know you can.”
One night not long after, Hannah invited me out for dinner. Just the two of us. I thought it was going to be awkward—me sitting across from this fierce, no-nonsense woman who somehow ran circles around bikers twice her size—but it wasn’t. We talked for hours. About school. About my essay. About the shelter I wanted to build one day. And instead of treating me likesome kid with a pipe dream, Hannah leaned in like every word mattered.
She told me about grant programs, local nonprofits, and even women she knew who’d been through hell and back and could use a place like the one I was imagining. She sketched ideas on the back of a napkin, asked questions that made my brain spin in the best way, and by the time the waitress shooed us out for closing, I realized something: Hannah Mills was a force to be reckoned with and one hell of a lady to have on my side.
Weeks rolled on in a blur of baby duty, late-night bottles, and mailbox stalking. Every day when I got home from hanging out at the clubhouse or Maria’s apartment, I’d check our box at the end of the driveway like it owed me money. Nothing. Bills. Flyers. Once, a pizza coupon that wasn’t even valid anymore.
Then one Tuesday afternoon, there it was. A fat envelope, stamped “University of Georgia.”
I froze on the gravel drive, heart slamming against my ribs. For a second, I just stared. Then I snatched it out, tore it open with shaking hands, and scanned the first line.
