Noah’s mother stepped closer, lowering her voice again, like this was something to be handled delicately. “We’re concerned about the environment he’s in.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I said, and the coldness in my voice surprised even me.
Noah’s mother’s eyes flicked toward the back hallway again, lingering there like she could already see Miles in her mind, already placing him somewhere else. “We think he’d be more comfortable with family,” she said gently, as if she were offering a kindness instead of issuing a threat.
“Heiswith family,” I snapped before I could stop myself.
Noah’s father inhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw tightening. “You’re not related to him.”
There it was.
The shift was unmistakable, the moment the air changed and the truth surfaced. This wasn’t about concern. This wasn’t about love or grief or what was best for a child. This was about control. About leverage. About removing the variable they didn’t like.
“Miles is not leaving with you,” I said, each word deliberate, measured, planted into the ground like a line I dared them to cross.
His mother’s expression hardened, the softness draining away. “Emily, you’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
“I don’t care,” I replied.
Her husband stepped closer, his voice dropping. “You’re unstable,” he said calmly. “Your business is chaotic. Your living situation is temporary. You have no legal standing. And now”—his gaze flicked pointedly to my phone on the table—“you’re publicly involved with Noah. That creates questions.”
My stomach twisted.
His mother reached into her bag and pulled out her phone, turning the screen toward me. A photo stared back—Noah and me outside his building, laughing, his arm around my waist. Another swipe. Me leaving the shop late one night, hair messy, clothes wrinkled. A headline from a sports blog speculating about Noah’s“sideline distractions.”
My hands went numb.
“You see how this looks,” she said softly. “A woman with no fixed residence. No formal childcare credentials. Suddenly responsible for a grieving child while pursuing a volatile career.”
They weren’t worried about Miles. They were building acase. From the back of the shop, a small voice cut through the tension like glass breaking.
“Aunt Em?”
My heart shattered.
Miles stood at the edge of the hallway, a crayon clenched in his fist, his face pinched with confusion. His eyes lit up when he saw them. God, that broke my heart. The kid needed and deserved to be loved, not caught up in bullshit.
“Grandma?” he asked, already taking a step forward.
I moved instantly.
I dropped to one knee in front of him, hands landing gently but firmly on his shoulders, holding him in place. “Hey, buddy,” I said, keeping my voice soft even as my pulse roared in my ears. “Can you stay right here with me for a minute?”
He frowned, glancing between me and them. “Why?”
“Because I need you with me,” I said, pressing my forehead to his. “Okay?”
He nodded, trusting me without hesitation, the weight of that trust nearly buckling my knees. Behind me, I could feel their impatience harden into irritation.
“This won’t look good,” Noah’s father said quietly. Not threatening. Certain.
I turned slowly, fire flooding my veins, fear burning away into something sharper. “I don’t care how it looks,” I said. “You arenottaking him.”
Noah’s mother exhaled sharply, the last of her patience gone. “We’ll let the court decide.”
The wordcourtechoed in my head like a siren.
I stood, placing myself fully between them and Miles, my hands shaking now but my spine locked straight. “You need to leave,” I said again. “Now.”
