Jocelyn’s POV
The breakfast plates multiply without permission.
Four sets instead of three. Orange juice poured into an extra glass. Eli's chair at the table no longer feels temporary—just occupied, like it's been waiting for him all along.
I catch myself reaching for the almond butter he prefers over peanut. Stop mid-reach, put it back.
"Just being practical," I mutter to the empty kitchen. "Kid has preferences. Not making him eat food he hates."
The lie tastes stale.
Three days since Natasha collapsed. Three days of Eli sleeping in the guest room, drawing with Mia for hours, speaking in quiet monosyllables that gradually stretch into actual sentences.
Three days of my daughter looking happier than she has in months.
I find them in Mia's room after school—pencils scattered, papers covering every surface. Eli hunches over a large sheet, concentration carving lines between his eyebrows. Mia leans against his shoulder, watching.
"What are you drawing?" I ask from the doorway.
Eli's hand stills. He glances up, uncertain whether I actually want to know or if I'm just performing politeness.
"A dream family," Mia announces. "Eli's gonna show me when it's done."
The phrase hits different than it should. Dream family. Like the one we have isn't enough, like something's missing that Eli's supposed to fill.
"Can I see?"
Eli hesitates, then turns the paper. The drawing is precise, detailed beyond his years—architectural in its structure but warm in execution.
A house. Not the penthouse, something smaller. People on the front steps.
Zayden, recognizable by his height and shoulders. Mia with her wild curls and that tiger clutched against her chest. Eli himself, sketchbook in hand.
And me, standing behind all of them, hand resting on Eli's shoulder.
My throat constricts.
"It's beautiful," I manage.
"It's fake," Eli says flatly. "Dream families don't exist. But Mia wanted me to draw one anyway."
The cynicism in his voice is too old, too practiced. Eight years of learning that hope is a luxury he can't afford.
"Some do," I hear myself say. "Just not in the way you expect."
Mia bounces on her knees. "Can Eli stay? Please? He needs somewhere to live and we have room and he's really good at drawing and—"
"Mia."
"He's my brother." Simple statement, absolute conviction. "Siblings are supposed to stay together."
Eli's face shutters. Preparing for rejection, for the inevitable moment when adults decide he's too complicated to keep.
I look at the drawing again. At the version of myself standing protective behind a child who isn't mine but could be. Should have been, if his father had made different choices eight years ago.
"He can stay," I say. "For now. Until we figure out something more permanent."
The words come out before I can stop them. Before I can remember I'm supposed to be furious, supposed to be protecting my own daughter from this mess.
Mia launches herself at me. "Thank you thank you thank you!"
Eli doesn't move, just stares like I've spoken a language he doesn't trust yet.
"I mean it," I tell him directly. "You're not going back to an empty apartment, not while your mom is…" I catch myself. "Not right now."
Later, after the kids are asleep, I find Zayden in his study. He's reviewing something—contracts, legal briefs, the wreckage of his own choices organized into neat stacks.
He looks up when I sit down, and for a moment neither of us speaks.
"Court psychologist comes tomorrow," I say. "Two PM. Don't be late."
He nods, sets down his pen. "Thank you for letting him stay."
"I'm not ready to hear you be grateful." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "Not yet."
He accepts that the way he's been accepting everything lately—silently, without argument, like a man who knows the cost of pushing back.
***
Dr. Patricia Pike arrives exactly on time, clipboard in hand, expression professionally neutral.
"I'll be evaluating the family dynamic," she explains, settling into our living room like she owns it. "Individual interviews, observation of interactions, assessment of the children's emotional state."
She starts with Mia.
I watch through the kitchen doorway, pretending to make coffee while really cataloging every microexpression, every shift in body language.
"Tell me about Eli," Dr. Pike says.
Mia lights up. "He's my brother. He draws buildings and cities and sometimes people. He's really good, better than me."
"How do you feel about him living here?"
"Happy." No hesitation. "He was sad before. His mom is sick and he didn't have anywhere to go. Now he has us."
"Do your parents fight about Eli?"
Mia's smile falters. "Sometimes. Mom gets really quiet when Dad talks about him. But she makes Eli breakfast and helps with his homework and bought him new clothes because his backpack only had three shirts."
I didn't realize Mia noticed that. The shopping trip I'd framed as practical necessity rather than care.
"Do you want Eli to stay?"
"Yes." Fierce, absolute. "He looks lonely, like he's waiting for someone to send him away. I don't want him to be lonely anymore."
The words crack something in my chest.
Dr. Pike moves to Eli next.
He sits rigid, answering questions with careful precision. Yes, he feels safe. No, he doesn't have nightmares. Yes, Jocelyn makes sure he eats and sleeps and does his homework.
"What about your father?" Dr. Pike asks.
Eli's jaw tightens. "He's here now. That's more than before."
"Do you trust him?"
Long pause. "I don't know yet."
"What about Jocelyn?"
Another pause, longer. "She makes me eat vegetables. And she checks my homework even though I always get it right." His voice drops. "My mom used to do that. Before she got too sick."
Dr. Pike makes notes. "Do you feel like part of this family?"
Eli stares at his hands. "I feel like I'm visiting, like they're being nice because they have to be, not because they want to."
The assessment continues. Dr. Pike pulls me aside, asks questions designed to expose cracks.
"Why did you agree to let Eli stay?"
"Because his mother is dying and he's eight years old."
"Not because Mr. Wolfe asked you to?"
"I'd have said yes even if Zayden asked me not to." The truth surprises me. "The kid deserves stability. Whatever issues I have with his father aren't his fault."
"You're including him in your routines? Shopping, homework help, family meals."
"He lives here. That's what you do for kids who live with you."
"Is that all it is?" Dr. Pike’s gaze is surgical. "Obligation?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Because the honest answer is complicated and terrifying and I'm not ready to say it out loud.
No, it's not just an obligation anymore.
It's watching Eli's face light up when Mia shows him a new drawing. It's the way he hovers near the kitchen when I'm cooking, not asking for anything but clearly wanting to be included.
It's how he folds his laundry with precision that breaks my heart because he's been taking care of himself for too long.
It's catching myself thinking "the kids" instead of "Mia and Eli." It's him becoming part of the rhythm of our lives without permission, without intention, just by being here and needing us.
"He's a good kid," I say finally. "He deserves better than what he's gotten."
Dr. Pike writes something down. "That wasn't my question."
"It's the only answer I have right now."
She nods, satisfied for now. After she leaves, I find Eli's drawing still on Mia's floor. The dream family, me with my hand on his shoulder like I'm claiming him, protecting him, choosing him.
I pick it up, fold it carefully and tuck it into my pocket instead of leaving it behind.