Part 2 began the night the court papers arrived in a yellow envelope that looked too thin to hold seven children’s future.
Lucy opened it at the kitchen table while Sam slept in her lap with one damp fist curled around her shirt. The overhead light flickered twice before settling. Outside, rain tapped softly against the broken gutter, and somewhere down the block a siren wailed and disappeared.
Nobody spoke while she read.
The twins sat shoulder to shoulder on the floor. George leaned against the refrigerator pretending not to shake. Anna had crawled beneath the table again, where she hid whenever adults used voices that sounded official.
I watched Lucy’s eyes move across the page.
Then stop.
“They want another inspection Friday,” she said quietly. “And they want proof there’s supervision while I’m working nights.”
The room stayed still.
“How much proof?” I asked.
Lucy laughed once, but it sounded tired instead of amused.
“The kind adults believe.”
Mrs. Miller arrived ten minutes later carrying tuna casserole and a folder thick enough to scare a lawyer. She had started building evidence the way other people build fences: carefully, board by board, until something vulnerable could finally rest behind it.
Inside the folder were copies of everything.
School attendance records.
Grocery receipts.
Notes from teachers.
Church donations.
A typed schedule showing which neighbors stayed with us each evening.
Even the landlord had written a statement admitting rent had been late only once since Mom disappeared.
“People trust paper,” Mrs. Miller said, setting the folder down. “So we give them paper.”
Lucy stared at the stack.
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
Mrs. Miller adjusted her glasses.
“You keep those children together. That’s thanks enough.”
But exhaustion was beginning to eat through Lucy anyway.