My mother made a wounded noise, pressing her hand to her chest like I'd just stabbed her. “Soren, please. We've been sober for eight months now. We've been going to meetings, working with a counselor, trying so hard to get better. We just want a chance to be a family again.”
“You were never a family.” I could hear my voice getting louder, could feel the control I usually maintained slipping through my fingers like water. “You were two people who had kids and then spent years making those kids' lives a living hell until the courts finally took them away.”
“That's not fair—” my father started, but I cut him off.
“Fair? You want to talk about fair?” I was shaking now, rage and panic and exhaustion all colliding into a fury I couldn't contain. “You abandoned us. You chose alcohol over keeping us safe. You let the house fall apart, let the bills go unpaid, let your kids go hungry so you could keep drinking. And now you show up with a lawyer and court papers thinking you can just take Poppy back like the past however many years didn't happen?”
“The court will determine what's in Poppy's best interest,” Morrison said, still infuriatingly calm. “Your parents have documentation of their sobriety, their counseling sessions, and their improved living situation. They have a legitimate case for modification of custody.”
“Where did you get the money for a lawyer?” The question came out before I could stop it, because that detail was wrong in ways that made alarm bells scream in my head. “You couldn't afford rent last month. How the hell are you paying for legal representation?”
My parents exchanged a glance that I couldn't read, and my father cleared his throat. “We've been saving. Prioritizing what matters.”
“That's a fucking lie.” I looked at Morrison. “Who's actually paying you?”
“My retainer agreement is confidential,” he said smoothly. “What matters is that your parents are exercising their legal rights to petition for custody modification. You'll be served with official notice within the week, and you'll have the opportunity to respond through your own legal counsel.”
He pulled a manila envelope from his briefcase and held it out to me. I stared at it like it was a live snake.
“This is a copy of the petition we'll be filing with the court,” he continued. “I'm providing it as a courtesy so you can begin preparing your response.”
I took the envelope because not taking it would have been admitting how much this was destroying me. The paper felt heavy in my hands.
“We don't want to fight you, Soren,” my mother said, and her eyes were already welling up with tears that I knew from experience could turn on and off like a faucet. “We just want to be part of Poppy's life again. We've changed. We're different now. Can't you see that?”
“No.” The word came out quiet but absolute. “All I see is the same pattern you've always run. You show up when you need a thing, you lie about being sober and stable long enough to get what you want, and then you disappear again and leave us to clean up the mess. I'm not letting you do that to Poppy.”
“The court will decide—” Morrison started, but I turned on him with enough fury that he took a step back.
“Get out of my house. All of you. Get the fuck out right now before I call the police and have you removed for trespassing.”
“We have a right?—”
“You have no rights here. This is my home. Poppy is my legal responsibility. And you're leaving. Now.”
My father stood up, and I saw him start to move toward me before Talia stepped between us with her arms crossed and an expression that said she'd physically remove him if necessary.
“You heard him,” she said, voice cold as ice. “Leave.”
Morrison gathered his briefcase with the kind of professional efficiency that suggested he'd been through confrontations like this before. “You'll be hearing from us through official channels. I'd advise you to retain legal counsel as soon as possible.”
They left in a procession that felt like a funeral march—Morrison first, then my mother still dabbing at her eyes, then my father with one last look that was probably supposed to convey regret but just looked like calculation to me.
The second the door closed behind them, the adrenaline that had been keeping me upright drained out all at once.
I stood there holding the manila envelope and felt the walls start closing in. My hands were shaking so badly the papers rustled, and I could hear my own breathing getting faster and shallower in ways that meant I was about to have a panic attack.
“Soren—” Talia started, but I couldn't hear her over the roaring in my ears.
They were trying to take Poppy. Were going to court with lawyers and documentation and a case that Morrison seemed to think was legitimate. They had money from somewhere, resources I didn't understand, and a plan that involved ripping my sister away from the only stable home she'd ever known.
And I didn't know how to stop them.
The envelope slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a sound that seemed too loud. I tried to pick it up and couldn't make my fingers work properly. Tried to breathe and couldn't get enough air. Tried to hold myself together and felt everything inside me start to crack.
“I can't—” The words came out broken. “I can't do this. I can't?—”
My knees gave out, and I would have hit the floor if Talia hadn't caught me. She guided me to the couch, and I collapsedonto it with my head in my hands while the panic turned into gasping sobs I couldn't control.
