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“But you have a business to run—”

“Our family is going to run it. Now, you give us a few hours, and we’ll be there.”

“I hate to bother you on Christmas. I feel like everything is going wrong,” she sniffles.

Manny’s voice is warm and strong, just the kind of voice you’d want a dad to have. “Hey, now. It’s going to get better, hon. You and your parents will make up.”

“They found out I didn’t sign up for any classes next semester, that my student loan paperwork is a mess, and that I failed two of my classes.”

“You’re on bed rest. You have a medical note.” Rhea’s face is thunderous. “Who failed you? Let me speak to them.”

“Get ‘em, Mama Bear,” Laz murmurs, tugging me upstairs.

“What are we doing?” I whisper.

“Packing their shit so they can get out of here faster. I know where they keep the suitcases. Hannah is in Ohio, so the weather is pretty much the same, right?”

“I think.” I shrug and hurry after him.

In thirty minutes, Manny and Rhea are double-checking our packing while shouting instructions, and I’m packing an ocean of leftover turkey sandwiches and rolls for the trip. “Nothing is going to be open on Christmas in the middle of the night,” I fret, worrying over them like I’m the mother hen.

“What if the social worker doesn’t like all this? Aren’t there rules about how much you can help out before the adoption is official?” Lazarus is pacing, typing everything Manny is saying into a long text message to himself.

Manny stops hoisting gargantuan suitcases into the car. “Lazarus Finklestein. I’m... I don’t know what I am.”

“Finklestien?” Lazarus looks stunned.

I don’t think he’s ever taken their name before, and now that he has, he’s all choked up.

Manny smiles. “I’m shocked that you’d think we’d let some rules or regulations get in the way of helping someone in need. That’s not who we are. That’s not what we do. If Hannah wants to raise her baby, well... Well, we’ll be disappointed, but I bet you we’ll be that child’s aunt and uncle. We are in the world to help others, to be a light in the darkness. Just like you are, son.” He comes over, grabs Lazarus by the back of the neck, and kisses him on his wild, wintery spikes. “Take care of this place for us, kiddo. Victoria, if he gets out of line, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I won’t,” I whisper, holding out the cooler full of sandwiches. “Where’s Rhea?”

“Here.” Rhea emerges from the garage, a fat purple diaper bag over one shoulder and a car seat with the infant insert snapped inside looped over her arm.

My gut twists.

“I think we’ll be staying there until she’s born at this point—and even with bedrest, if the cerclage didn’t work and she’s had spotting, that means it won’t be too much longer. Not longer than three weeks, even in the best of circumstances,” she says with a brave look. “So. It’s better. To have these things in case she needs them.”

There’s so much trapped pain under so much brave hope. I give Rhea a hug strong enough to make her superhuman ribs squish in. “I’m hoping and praying she’s okay. That you’re all okay.”

“Thank you, Victoria. I’m so glad you’re here. We’ll call you every day.”

“Twice!” Lazarus insists.

“At least,” Manny vows. “Hon, get in the car. Hannah needs us.”

Lazarus and I lock hands and wave them on their way. “Be careful!” Laz calls.

“Call us when you get there!” I shout, clinging to him.

It feels like our family just went off on the biggest adventure of their lives—and left us here to take care of everything important to them, everything that will give their little family a home to come home to.

“Shit just got real,” Lazarus whispers, more to himself than me.

I wrap my arms around him, and he hugs me tight. “Thank goodness you’re here,” I murmur into his chest.

“Likewise. Um. Geez. Uh. I’m not the responsible type. What the hell do we do now?”