And that scared me.
His mother wore a soft cardigan, the kind meant to signal warmth, her hair styled neatly, hands folded at her waist like she’d practiced this stance in the mirror. His father stood half a step behind her, posture straight, expression neutral in a way that wasn’t calm so much as controlled.
They looked like people who had planned this.
“Oh,” his mother said gently, eyes settling on me. “Hello, Emily.”
The sound of the shop seemed to recede all at once. Sewing machines kept humming behind me, but the hum was distant now, muffled, like I was underwater. My heart didn’t race—it thudded, slow and heavy, a warning drumbeat.
“Hi,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady even as my palms dampened. “Can I help you?”
Her gaze slid past me, assessing the space with quick efficiency. The tables. The racks. The bins. The people working. Approval and calculation crossed her face in rapid succession, so fast I almost missed it.
“This must be your infamous shop,” she said. “It’s… impressive.”
“Thank you,” I replied automatically, even as something tight and cold curled in my stomach. Infamous? Why would she say that?
Noah’s father stepped forward then, his attention bypassing me entirely. His eyes settled somewhere over my shoulder. “Is Miles here?”
My body reacted before my mind did.
“Yes,” I said carefully. “He’s in the back. Coloring.”
His mother smiled, soft and practiced, the kind of smile meant to disarm. “We were hoping to see him.”
A sharp, instinctive heat flared in my chest. I shifted without thinking, positioning myself enough to block the hallway behind me. Not obvious. Not aggressive. Just… present.
“Now isn’t a good time,” I said. “We’re working.”
His father’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. “We won’t be long.”
Behind me, the room stilled.
Daniel’s movements stopped. The hum of the machines felt suddenly too loud, too exposed, like the shop itself had gone alert. My skin prickled from scalp to spine.
“I need to ask you to leave,” I said, keeping my voice level even as my fingers curled tighter around the cloth in my hand. “This is my workplace, and we all know Noah isn’t here.”
Noah’s mother sighed, a small sound of disappointment, likeI was being unreasonable instead of protective. “Emily, we’re not here to cause a scene.”
Her husband reached into his jacket pocket. My stomach dropped hard enough that my knees threatened to give.
He didn’t pull anything dramatic. No sharp movements. No raised voice. He simply withdrew an envelope and held it loosely between his fingers, like it carried no weight at all.
“This is paperwork,” he said. “We wanted to inform you personally.”
The word personally landed wrong. Intimate. Invasive.
“Inform me of what?” I asked.
His eyes finally met mine. Whatever pretense of warmth he’d been holding onto was gone now, replaced by something sharp and exacting. “We’ve filed for a guardianship review.”
The words hit with a force I felt in my bones.
Guardianship. Review.
Courtrooms. Lawyers. Clipboards. Questions. Strangers deciding what was best for a five-year-old who liked pancakes and dragons and sitting on the floor with crayons. My mind raced ahead, stacking worst-case scenarios faster than I could dismantle them.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I couldn’t trust myself to do either.
