“You’re twenty-six,” I say. “You had a whole life in California—friends, an apartment, school. And you put that all aside and came here to be a guardian to your nieces and nephews. Did you ever consider not raising them? Letting child services find new homes for them?”

She raises her chin. “Never. Not for a second.”

“Why?” I ask softly.

“Because I love them. They’re mine. Raising them is the most important thing I’ll ever do.” Her eyes are wet as she turns to the judge. “And some days it’s hard, Your Honor . . . but even on those days, there’s so much joy. They’re everything to me.”

I give Chelsea a nod, letting her know she did great. Then I sit down and the agency’s lawyer gets her turn.

She stands. “Miss McQuaid, what is the nature of your relationship with your attorney, Jake Becker?”

And I’m on my feet. “Your Honor, unless opposing counsel is suggesting I pose some type of danger to the McQuaid children, this type of questioning is completely out of line.”

“I agree. Move on, Counselor.”

She does. Trying to spin the incidences with the kids into some kind of negligence on Chelsea’s part. But there’s no damage done. When there’s no smoke, there’s no fire.

After Chelsea is excused, I submit the statements from the pediatrician, which attest to the kids’ health and how they’re all up to date on their well visits. I also submit statements from Sofia, Stanton, and Brent, corroborating Chelsea’s competency as a guardian and to show that she has a support system. CFSA stands by the argument that originally won them custody and we both rest our cases. The judge says she’ll deliberate and return with her ruling as soon as possible, then court is adjourned.

After the judge leaves the courtroom, Chelsea turns to me. “What now?”

“Now . . . we wait.”

25

We stay close to the courthouse for lunch, and despite Brent’s most annoying efforts, Chelsea doesn’t touch her food. Two hours later, court is back in session. Chelsea holds my hand in a death grip under the table as the judge clears her throat to render her decision.

“As one of nine children¸ I feel particularly qualified to rule in this case.” She peers down through her glasses at us. “As Miss McQuaid stated, raising children is hard—particularly six children between the ages of six months and fourteen years. Whether there is one child or ten, however, it is still the court’s responsibility to ensure these children are raised in the custody of a guardian who will care for them and provide a safe environment that allows them to thrive. After reviewing all of the evidence presented, I believe Chelsea McQuaid is just such a guardian . . .”

Mentally I shout in victory and Chelsea starts to cry.

“And so I am ordering that physical and legal custody of the six minor children be returned to Miss McQuaid, effective immediately.” She turns her attention to the Children and Family Services side of the room. “CFSA is charged with not just the task of judging parental performance but assisting them as well. Our job is not to tear families apart and claim they are better for it, but to find a way for families to stay together. Children and Family Services will provide the court with monthly updates on this case, and rest assured, I will be looking for increased involvement by that agency when it comes to providing assistance in all areas.” She glances at Chelsea and smiles. “Good luck, Miss McQuaid. Court is adjourned.”

Chelsea throws herself into my arms, while Brent, Sofia, and Stanton are all smiles too. She looks up at me. “Can we go get them?”

“Yeah, we can.”

“Right now?” She bounces.

“Right now.” I laugh.

• • •

We pick up Chelsea’s brother’s truck, then, with the information Janet provided, we drive about an hour north of the city to get the monsters. Chelsea talks and smiles the whole way there, looking so damn overjoyed. Janet notified the foster family that we were on our way, so they’re not surprised when we show up at the front door. It’s a nice place—a big house, a quiet street. The pretty blonde who answers the door tells Chelsea the kids are in the back. We open the sliding glass doors and step into the backyard, and you’d think they haven’t seen Chelsea in two years instead of two days.

That’s how happy they are. How fast they run to her. How loud they scream when they see her. How long they hug her—like they never want to let go.

“You’re here!” Rosaleen yells while her aunt tries to hug them all at the same time. “I knew you’d come, I knew it!”

“Can we go home?” Rory asks Chelsea.

“Yes—we’re going home.”

When Regan loses her footing in the mass of hugging bodies and falls on her ass on the grass, I scoop her up. I hold her high for a minute, then settle her comfortably in my arms. She puts her little hands on my cheeks, looks me in the face, and squeaks her third word.

“Jake!”

And the whole world goes blurry.

“Damn, kiddo, you’ve got a way with words.”

• • •

It’s around four o’clock by the time we get back to the house and get the kids unpacked. They’re all so hyped up, so excited to be home again, they convince Chelsea to throw a party.

And she agrees.

There’s a distinct possibility she’s never going to be able to say fucking no to them again.