“Thanks, Mayor Carter.”
“This is my fiancée, Bunny Chou.”
“I haven't said yes yet,” said the woman by his side. But the way she grinned up at him told Paul all he needed to know about their impending nuptials.
“This the baby I heard about?” said Paul.
“Yep,” said the mayor. “Found her right before the snow hit. Just sitting on the front steps like someone special dropped her off with a prayer.”
The baby let out a satisfied gurgle, and Paul found himself smiling in return. “She’s beautiful. Any word about the parents?”
“Not a thing,” the mayor replied, gaze soft as he looked down at the baby girl. “Town’s buzzing, but no leads yet. Folks think she’s ours.”
Paul glanced between the two adults standing before him and the baby held between them. It wasn’t just the fact that the child didn’t look like either of them—not the same race, not the same features. It was the way they held her: fully, openly, like the little girl was a guest they wanted to stay. But it was clear she hadn't started her life here.
Paul stepped closer, brushing a finger against the baby’s fist. She grasped it, tiny and determined. “She couldn’t land in better arms.”
How could a mother just walk away from this? Then again, maybe she hadn’t wanted to. Maybe she’d had no choice. Maybe the father didn’t even know.
Paul's own childhood had been a quilt of warm dinners and backyard soccer games, his father’s voice the sound of steady encouragement. He couldn’t imagine growing up without that. He wouldn’t let this little girl start her life feeling disposable.
“I don’t know how you got here, sweetheart, but I promise I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you end up right where you’re meant to be.”
CHAPTERFIVE
The storm had passed, leaving behind a glittering crust of snow that clung to rooftops and softened the edges of the town. Birdy’s boots crunched over the walkway as she made her way up the front steps of her grandmother’s house. Meiying Chou's three-story was the kind of creaky old bungalow that always smelled like ginger, black tea, and freshly laundered curtains.
Inside, the warmth was immediate and welcoming. A kettle hissed on the stove. Faint strains of a radio drama played from the kitchen. The actors spoke in Nãinai's native tongue. Birdy had learned Chinese, like all her siblings and cousins. But they'd fallen out of practice over the years. Birdy especially.
Her K-drama obsession hadn’t helped—too much swooning in Hangul, not enough Mandarin or Cantonese. She furrowed her brow, trying to follow along with the radio drama, but the words twisted in her brain. Was the heroine proclaiming her undying love or announcing she’d poisoned someone’s soup?
Birdy winced as the actors started shouting. Probably the soup.
“Birdy, close the door. You’ll let the cold in with your opinions.”
Birdy smiled in spite of herself. She pulled the door shut and slipped off her coat, draping it over the back of a chair as she stepped into the kitchen.
Her grandmother came into the room, all five feet of her wrapped in a quilted vest over a thick floral blouse. Her silver hair was twisted into its usual bun, and her bright eyes crinkled as she reached for a steaming pot of tea.
“I brought your will,” Birdy said, tapping the folder she’d tucked under her arm.
“I brought almond cookies,” Nãinai replied. “One of us has our priorities straight.”
They sat at the little table by the window, the world outside cast in morning light and snowdrifts. Birdy flipped open the folder and began explaining a few updates, pointing out the necessary initials, the phrasing around estate transfer.
“I’ve left space here,” she said, tapping a clause, “if you want to put in one of those legacy conditions, like Yéyé did. You know—about your grandchildren getting married before they can inherit.”
“It worked, didn't it?” Nãinai snorted softly into her cup. “All my granddaughters are either engaged or married. Except you.”
“That's right. I’m the last holdout.” And she had every intention of staying that way. Birdy's life was exactly as she liked it.
Her law practice was thriving. Her name was spoken with a mixture of respect and wariness around town. She had her sisters, her cases, her sense of justice. Her bed stayed made. Her fridge stayed organized. She didn’t have to negotiate her schedule or share her pillows or make space for someone else’s toothpaste in her medicine cabinet.
Marriage? That was chaos. A man would come in with all his needs—emotional, physical, psychological—and expect her to bend. To pour energy into bolstering his ego, supporting his dreams, softening her edges.
No, thank you.
She’d worked too hard to become the woman she was. Letting someone in would mean dimming her light just to survive the strain of compromise. And for what? For date nights she didn’t have time for or arguments over who left dishes in the sink?
