"She's been saving that speech for a week," Callie said.
"I'm honored to finally receive the briefing."
She turned her head and looked at me, and her face was wide open. Walls down. Foundations gone.
I made the eggs. Cloud eggs. Extra cheese — which, by Maisie's standards, meant you shouldn't be able to see the egg anymore. She sat on the counter and supervised and told me everything three more times, and I listened to every word like it was new because it was. All of it. This kitchen. This morning. This life I'd almost lost and gotten back.
Momma arrived at nine. She came through the front door without knocking — because that's what Momma did, she treated doors as suggestions — and Maisie was off the counter and across the room before Momma had her purse down.
“Miss Lou! Clay's back, and he made cloud eggs and did you know about peninsulas?"
Momma looked at me over Maisie's head. Her eyes moved across my face — quick, reading, the same way she'd read all of us since we were small. Whatever she saw made her nod. Once. The nod that meant good.
"I'm taking this one into town," she said. "Ice cream. The bookshop. Possibly the farm supply store if she behaves."
"Ialwaysbehave," Maisie said.
"That is categorically untrue," Callie said.
Momma scooped Maisie up, collected the horse and the pink boots, and was out the door in under three minutes with the efficiency of a woman who'd raised six children and understood that momentum was everything.
The cottage went quiet. Callie looked at me across the kitchen.
"Savannah's coming at ten," she said.
"Then we've got an hour."
She crossed the kitchen and kissed me — slow, deliberate, her hands on my jaw, the taste of tea and the smell of hershampoo and the specific, grounding certainty of a woman who'd chosen to stay.
"Thank you," she said against my mouth. "For being here when she woke up."
"There's nowhere else I'd be."
Savannah arrived with a legal pad and three folders. Levi beside her — quiet, sharp, the kind of lawyer who let other people talk while he listened for the thing nobody said. He mentioned his wife, Savannah’s sister, Tess, had been in a similar situation to Callie, so I appreciated his insight when he gave it. We sat around Callie's kitchen table, and Callie was on my left with her hair up, glasses on, a pen moving across her own legal pad with the speed and precision of a woman who'd been doing this work for years and was very, very good at it.
Savannah walked us through the strategy. The three pillars of Preston's filing. How each one collapsed under the evidence Levi had assembled. The counter-strike — the Aspen violation that put Preston's existing visitation at risk.
Callie listened in lawyer mode. Her pen stopped moving when Levi presented the Aspen violation — she wrote something in the margin of her pad, underlined it twice, then asked a question about the burden of proof for custody modification in Texas that made Savannah's eyebrows lift.
"Section 156.101," Callie said. "Material and substantial change in circumstances. Preston has to prove the change — my relocation to Copper Creek — materially harms Maisie. Everything we have shows the opposite."
Savannah closed her folder. "Either way, it ends Monday."
Under the table, Callie's hand found mine. Her fingers laced through mine and held — the grip of a woman who'd found her footing and was planting her feet.
Savannah stopped at the door on her way out. "Cal."
Callie looked up.
"You're ready."
Callie nodded. One nod. The same nod Wyatt gave — the kind that meant more than a speech.
Savannah left. Levi followed. The kitchen was quiet.
"Section 156.101," I said.
"What about it?"
