And now? There was a message on her desk on government letterhead.This form will not be processed until the following business cycle.
Translation: she’d missed the window, would have to wait another thirty days for her practice to be back in good standing, and in the meantime, her lease, her insurance, and her bank account could all be at risk.
Birdy hadn’t lost a case. But she might lose professional credibility. And possibly her mind.
She clicked through the state’s business portal, trying to find a backdoor, a loophole, anything. The site loaded with all the charm of a DMV on a Monday.
Filing window closed. This entity is now listed as Delinquent – Not in Good Standing.Next eligible filing window: thirty days from now.
She stared at the screen like it had personally insulted her. Which, in a way, it had.
There was no phone number to call. No override button. Just a grayed-out “Submit” button and a chirpy message that read:
Need assistance? Our help desk is open Monday–Thursday, 10am–5pm.
It was Friday. At 4:47 p.m.
Birdy inhaled through her nose. The office smelled like burned coffee and lemon disinfectant. Not exactly inspiring—but then again, inspiration wasn’t her priority. Legitimacy was.
She picked up her phone and dialed the number for the State Business Licensing Department. It rang. And rang. And rang.
“Seriously?” she muttered. She still had ten minutes left before 5 p.m. “Government workers are supposed to be essential.”
A glance out the window showed the snow coming down in a white sheet. She hung up and redialed. Same result. The little plastic snow globe on her desk—an ironic gift from her younger sister, depicting the town’s gazebo in a dreamy, glitter-snow haze—mocked her with every shake of her leg under the desk.
She opened the department’s website again and saw something new. It was a page that read:Need Help? Chat with an Agent 24/7.
Her fingers pounced on the keyboard like a tiger on a mouse.
User: I missed the deadline for filing my license application. I need to know if there’s a workaround or an appeal process.
Sharp.Clipped. All business. That was Birdy Chou. Why waste words on small talk when she could get right to the point?
She rubbed the back of her neck and leaned back in her chair, which squeaked in protest. The heating vent above her head blasted hot air. Outside, the snow continued to fall in thick, earnest flakes. The kind that whispered of cocoa and long conversations.
But Birdy didn’t do whispers. She did checkboxes.
As she waited for a reply, she felt the first tendrils of panic slide through her ribs like unwelcome houseguests. This business—her firm, her clients—was the culmination of years of hard work, sacrifice, and putting her personal life on permanent pause. She didn’t do this for prestige. She did it for the women who came through her doors, needing someone who wouldn’t flinch. Divorce. Custody. Protective orders. Most of her clients were women looking for protection from men who swore they loved them—until they didn’t.
Some had accused Birdy of having a bias against men, but Birdy didn’t deal in feelings. She dealt in facts. And the facts were: men were more often the aggressors, women more often the victims, and she had no patience for gaslighting.
Not in court. Not in life.
Not from the ex-boyfriend who once sulked because she tried to pay for dinner or pouted when she changed a tire faster than he could find the number for Triple A. And certainly not from the man who dumped her after she disarmed a mugger—while he stood frozen beside her on the sidewalk.
If she didn’t get this license updated, she wouldn’t just lose the office she’d leased or the website she’d built—she’d lose her ability to stand between her clients and the people who wanted to silence them.
She’d lose control. And Birdy Chou did not lose control.
The cursor on the chat window blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
And then… a reply.
