“Amber,” I warn, voice tight. “Be careful.”
She holds my gaze for a long second, then waves a dismissive hand. “Fine. Go.”
Norah takes Maisie’s hand and leads her down the hallway. Maisie glances back once, eyes big behind her glasses, then disappears around the corner.
The door clicks shut behind them. The room feels smaller with them gone.
Ryker drags a hand through his hair. “This isn’t okay.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “She can’t just take her.”
“I’m not unstable,” Amber snaps. “I’m grieving, and I don’t appreciate you talking about me like I’m not in the fucking room with you.”
“I know,” I repeat. “But grief doesn’t give you the right to uproot her life. You’re not going back home, Amber. You?—”
“She’s my daughter.”
“And she’s my niece,” I say. “And I love her.”
Her shoulders sag for just a second, like the fight drains out of her. Then she straightens again.
“We’re going to visit,” she says. “I’m not disappearing. But I can’t stay here. This is your home, Jude, not mine. I need to start over.”
Footsteps approach.
The hallway door opens, and Norah comes back into the room, holding Maisie’s hand. Maisie is smiling.
Actually smiling.
It hits me in the chest like a punch.
I have no idea what Norah said to her, but whatever it was, it worked. Maisie looks excited, cheeks pink, jacket zipped up.
She has a beanie covering her ears, and I can spot two braids peeking from beneath it.
I can’t believe Norah took the time to do that.
“Hey, Rufus,” Amber says. The dog walks over to her and happily enjoys a few scratches behind the ears.
Fucking traitor.
“You look so cute,” Ryker tells Maisie.
My niece smiles. “Thank you.”
“Ready?” Amber says, her voice filled with false cheer.
I feel bile rise up my throat.
“Yes, Mommy.” Then she walks to me and hands me Frida. “Here you go, Uncle Jude. I’ll tell Santa to get me a new one so you can keep her.”
I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.
I blink hard and force the anger out of my tone. “How about you keep Frida, and then you can give her to me when you come back?”
“Okay.” She nods enthusiastically. I tug gently at one of her braids, feeling all the fight leave my body.
I want her to stay, but I don’t want to risk a bigger scene. I don’t want the last memory she has of this house, of this visit, to be of me yelling at her mother.
