I can’t do this. She whispered. I can’t keep putting you through this. You’re not putting me through anything. They are. Same thing. It’s not. Lucas reached over, took her hand. Amelia, look at me. She did, eyes bright with unshed tears. I knew this would be hard, he said. I knew they’d come after me, after us, trying to force you back.
And I’m still here. That’s not going to change because Richard Caldwell shows up and acts like an He called you a I don’t care what he called me. I care that you stood up for us, for Emma and Mason and me. That matters more than anything he said. I meant it about destroying him if he comes after you again. I know you did. That’s what scares me.
Amelia almost laughed. I’m a mess. So am I. We match. Emma leaned forward from the backseat. Are we going home now? Yeah, sweetheart. We’re going home. Home. The word felt heavier now, weighted with meaning none of them could quite articulate. The next few days passed in tense calm. Amelia spent hours on the phone with Patricia, building their case for the next hearing.
Lucas worked the farm, trying to ignore the way people stared when he went into town for supplies. Emma threw herself into planning her next experiment, oblivious to the adult drama swirling around her. But the peace couldn’t last. Lucas knew at the moment his phone rang Wednesday afternoon, an unknown New York number on the screen.
Mr. Hayes, this is Jennifer Walsh from the Department of Child Services. Ice flooded Lucas’s veins. What can I do for you? We’ve received a complaint about the welfare of your children. I need to schedule a home visit to assess the situation. A complaint from who? I’m not at liberty to say, but the concerns were serious enough that we need to investigate. My kids are fine.
They’re healthy and happy and safe. I’m sure they are, Mr. Hayes. This is just standard procedure. How does Friday morning work for you? Lucas wanted to refuse, wanted to tell her to take her investigation and shove it, but refusing would only make things worse. Friday’s fine. Excellent. I’ll be there at 9:00.
She hung up. Lucas stood in the barn, phone still pressed to his ear, rage and fear warring in his chest. They were coming after his kids now, actually officially coming after them. He found Amelia in the kitchen working on her laptop. We have a problem. She looked up. What kind of problem? Child services.
Someone filed a complaint. They’re doing a home visit Friday. All color drained from Amelia’s face. This is them, the board. They’re trying to prove you’re unfit. They won’t find anything. The house is clean, the kids are healthy. That doesn’t matter. They’ll find something to criticize, some reason to question your fitness, and they’ll use me as evidence of instability.
So, what do I do? Amelia closed her laptop thinking hard. We prepare. Make sure the house is spotless. Make sure you have documentation, medical records, school records, anything showing the kids are well cared for. And I stay out of sight during the visit. You’re running again. I’m being strategic.
If they see me here, they’ll use it against you. Better I disappear for a few hours. Lucas wanted to argue, wanted to tell her to stay, to stand beside him, to stop letting these people control their lives, but Emma and Mason’s safety mattered more than his pride. Okay, he said. We do it your way. They spent Thursday cleaning like their lives depended on it, which in a way they did.
Every surface was scrubbed, every toy organized, every corner examined for potential criticism. Emma helped without understanding why, just knowing something important was happening. Is someone coming to check on us? She asked, folding her clothes carefully. Yes, someone from the government. They just want to make sure you and Mason are okay.
But we are okay. I know, sweetheart, but they need to see it for themselves. Is this because of those mean people who came to the diner? Lucas stopped folding laundry. What makes you think that? Because you and Amelia have been worried since then, and people only get worried when other people are being mean.
6 years old and already too perceptive. Lucas pulled her into a hug. You’re right. Some people are being mean, but we’re handling it. Is Amelia going to leave again? Just for a few hours tomorrow. She’ll be back. Promise? Promise. That night, after Emma was asleep, Lucas and Amelia just sat on the porch going over strategy.
She’d printed out checklists, guidelines, advice from lawyers about dealing with child services. They’ll look at everything, she said. How you interact with the kids, how the kids interact with each other, whether the house is safe, whether you can provide for their needs. I can provide for their needs. I know, but you need to prove it.
Show them bank statements showing you’re current on bills. Show them the kids’ medical records. Show them Emma’s schoolwork. This is insane. This is what happens when people with money want to hurt you. They use the system as a weapon. Amelia looked tired, shadows deep under her eyes. I’m sorry, Lucas. This is my fault.
Stop apologizing. You didn’t make them file a false complaint. No, but I gave them ammunition. She stood, pacing. If I just went back to New York, ended this fight, they’d leave you alone. And you’d be miserable. Maybe, but your kids would be safe. My kids are safe now. One visit from child services doesn’t change that.
Lucas, no. He stood, facing her. You don’t get to sacrifice yourself for us. That’s not how this works. Then how does it work? We fight together. We prove them wrong together. We show them they can’t break us. Amelia looked at him for a long moment. You really believe that? I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point? She nodded slowly.
