Page 71 of Scout
I haven’t cried today.That’s probably worth something. No one tells you how fast grief turns into a checklist. Clean the house. Sign the forms. Hold it together.
Earlier this afternoon, Millie’s mom knocked on the door with a Target bag full of snacks and a casserole. Told me she and her husband are around if we ever need anything. That Juniper’s a sweet kid and Millie’s glad she’s next door.
I could’ve cried right then and there. But I didn’t. Not even when I got a call from my lawyer, saying one form needs to be notarized by tomorrow morning or it’ll delay everything.
Kaelin is confident this will be an open and shut case since I’m blood, next of kin, financially stable and Juniper’s safe here. We’re not using the word adoption yet, but that’s where this is heading.
She’s mine. Has been since the second I walked into that hospital room. But I want no delays, so I text to ask if it could be faxed to a local notary near Juniper’s school so I can sign it after drop-off.
She still goes to her old school. I drive her there in the mornings and pick her up in the afternoons, because changing schools felt like one more loss I couldn’t give her. I told her we’ll talk about it again before next year. That gives us time, right?
There’s no handbook on suddenly becoming a parent to your twelve-year-old sister. Just a bunch of texts from lawyers and sticky notes on the fridge, reminding me who to call and when.
As if the universe could sense me spiraling, CPS showed up. Unannounced. Just a woman named Liane with a clipboard and kind eyes. She walked through the apartment, complimented the fire extinguisher under the sink and the granola bars in the pantry. She asked Juniper questions about sleep and safety and snacks. Juniper answered everything calmly, like she'd done this before. Like this wasn’t her first time being interviewed about her own survival.
On her way out, Liane gives me a thumbs-up and says, “You’re doing good.”
After she leaves, I rinse out a glass at the sink with hands that won’t stop trembling. I did everything right. I know I did. But for ten solid minutes, my brain wouldn’t shut up with what ifs.
That’s what gets to me—not the chaos, but the silence that comes after.
Three weeks ago, it was hospitals and death certificates and social workers and phone calls to attorneys. Now it’s… this. Life. Real life. Unfolding whether I’m ready or not.
I never thought I’d be the kind of person who gets excited about finishing laundry before midnight, but here we are, folding Juniper’s mismatched socks while a YouTube video hums in the background. She’s curled up at the other end of the couch with a fuzzy blanket, watching someone make a giant rainbow cake with six sticks of butter and an irresponsible amount of food coloring.
My phone buzzes beside me. Another voicemail from Kendrix. That’s the third this week.
I don’t open it.
Juniper peeks over the top of her blanket, spoon paused halfway to her mouth. She’s eating mint chocolate chip—our current favorite. Lately, it’s been all about the little comforts.
“You’re not gonna listen to it?”
“Nope,” I say, pushing another folded sock into the basket.
She watches me for a moment, eyes narrowed like she’s trying to read between the lines. But I’m not lying. I heard the last two messages—both opened with “Hey, just checking in…” and ended with silence. I never called back.
“You don’t know what you think you do,” I say without looking up.
She licks her spoon and shrugs. “I know enough. You should respond. They care.”
I let out a long breath and drop my head back against the couch. “It’s not that simple, Junie Boo.”
“Never is,” she says, and goes back to watching the cake video.
God, sometimes she talks like she’s forty.
We sit in silence for a while. She shifts closer and leans her head against my shoulder. I loop an arm around her, gently, careful of the healing spot where her head got stapled.
“I was thinking…” she starts.
“Yeah?”
“Can I have a sleepover this weekend? With Millie?” She looks up at me, wide-eyed. “The last one got kinda… well, you know. Crashed. Literally.”
I snort. “Yeah, that’s putting it mildly.”
She grins. “So… can I?”
