No, her peace came from being alone. Her power came from never having to explain herself.
Uninvited thoughts drifted to the guy on the chat. He'd been a voice behind a screen. A government employee with a dry humor and a patient keyboard. He hadn’t asked her to bend. He’d met her energy, word for word.
Birdy shook her head and reached for her teacup. It had just been a conversation. A flicker of connection in the cold. Nothing worth rewriting her entire worldview over.
So how come she hadn’t closed the now defunct chat tab?
“You’ve always been the strongest,” her grandmother was saying. “But strong girls still need love.”
“I have love,” Birdy said. “I have my sisters. I have my cousins. I have you.”
Nãinai gave her a look—one of those wise, not-buying-it looks that only grandmothers and Buddhist monks could master. “You need a man in your life.”
Birdy rolled her eyes. “I am financially secure. I can take out my own trash and change my own oil. What do I need a man for?”
Her grandmother waved a hand. “Not for the money. Not for the chores. For the emotions. You’ve always been too hard around the edges. You need someone you can be soft with.”
Birdy opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. Because she had been soft with the government agent. She’d let herself be vulnerable. But that didn’t count, right? It was anonymous. Safe. He couldn’t see her, didn’t know what she looked like, how tall she stood, how quick she was to speak her mind.
He didn’t know how many men had flinched from her brightness—how many had told her she was “too much” when all she’d done was be herself. He wouldn’t like her in real life. He’d back off. Just like all the others. She sipped her tea to chase the thought away.
Nãinai, clearly sensing her mood, leaned back in her chair and said casually, “Did you hear Bunny and the mayor have a baby now?”
Birdy blinked. “What?”
“Someone left a baby on the doorstep of the mayor’s office during the storm. Whole town is talking about it. Of course, people think it’s theirs. You know how people are.”
Birdy sat straighter. Her legal instincts sharpened instantly. A baby. Abandoned. During the storm.
Could it be…?
Out the window, the world was still and quiet, like the snow had hushed the town into holding its breath. If it was her client’s baby, things were about to get a lot more complicated.
CHAPTERSIX
Paul turned the wheel of his SUV with one hand. The heater blasted against the cold, creeping in through the windows. He passed the firehouse, the post office, and the hardware store, where someone had already shoveled a path to the front door. This town was the kind of place that knew how to handle snow—and hopefully everything else.
The morning had been a blur of paperwork and conflicting emotions. On one desk sat the file for the abandoned baby—healthy, thriving, with no known parent stepping forward. On the other was a father begging to see his daughter, blocked at every turn by a mother who’d weaponized the system against her ex.
So many people still believed mothers had all the rights, all the say. Paul had seen too many good men pushed aside. Too many children caught in the middle.
Kids didn’t need perfect parents. They needed present ones. Stable ones. The ones who showed up.
Placing both hands on the wheel, he pulled into the lot behind the mayor’s office. His tires crunched over packed snow as he came to a stop. The SUV rocked slightly as he shifted into park and killed the engine.
For now, his focus was the abandoned baby. The one left in a blanket on the mayor’s front steps, tucked into a bassinet like someone couldn’t bear to look as they walked away.
Paul exhaled through his nose, the air fogging briefly in the cold. He wondered—not for the first time—what kind of mother could leave her child behind. And also, what kind of father didn’t even know they had one out there?
Maybe the baby's mother had been scared. Alone. Maybe she thought she was doing the right thing.
Paul looked up at the City Hall building. Warm light glowed through the windows. If they couldn’t locate the parents and no placement came through, he hoped the mayor and Bunny would agree to temporary custody. The baby would be safe with the couple. Loved. It would be a good home. A good life.
Paul couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere out there, a man had no idea a tiny person existed—someone with his eyes or his smile or his laugh. And that? That felt wrong.
He reached for the file beside him on the passenger seat and stepped out into the cold. The wind nipped at the back of his neck as he made his way toward the building. He glanced down at the file again, at the name they’d assigned the baby for now. Baby Jane Doe. Not for long, he hoped.
As he reached the steps, he ran one hand down his coat, brushed the snow from his shoulders, and squared himself for the conversation ahead. This wasn’t just about checkboxes or court orders. This was about beginnings. About who showed up—and who chose to stay.
