The house on Pinecrest Lane had never felt smaller.
Lily Kane, six years old and small enough to hide inside a blanket fort, suddenly carried the weight of every adult heartbeat in the room. The morning after Victor's confession, the kitchen smelled of burnt toast and unspoken dread. Snow tapped against the windows like tiny fists begging to be let in. Lily sat on the bottom step of the staircase, knees pulled to her chest, clutching the worn teddy bear Anna had given her the night she left four years ago. Its left ear was half-sewn, its fur rubbed thin from nights of secret tears. Lily had named it "Mommy-Bear" when she was two. She had never let it go.
Downstairs, the grown-ups spoke in the careful, hushed voices people use when they think children aren't listening.
"…she can't just disappear again, Rowan. Not after Lily finally saw her."
"That man—Victor—he says he loves her. What if she chooses him?"
"Holly, I swear, I only want you—"
Their words floated up the stairwell like smoke, curling around Lily's ankles. She pressed Mommy-Bear tighter against her mouth so no one would hear the hiccupping sobs that kept escaping.
She understood more than they realized.
She understood that the pretty lady with the sad green eyes was the same person who used to sing "You Are My Sunshine" off-key while pushing her on the baby swing.
She understood that the same lady had vanished on Christmas Eve and never came back for four birthdays.
She understood that Daddy's eyes turned stormy whenever Mommy's name was said.
And now Mommy was here, sleeping in the guest room, smelling like the same strawberry shampoo Lily remembered from when she was tiny.
But she also understood something new and terrifying:
Mommy might leave again.
That thought cracked something open inside Lily's chest—a raw, jagged hole that hurt worse than the time she fell off the monkey bars and broke her wrist. She didn't have words for the feeling yet, but her body did. Her tummy twisted. Her throat closed. Her eyes burned so hard she couldn't blink.
She crept halfway down the stairs, barefoot, clutching the railing. The grown-ups were in the living room now. She could see them through the spindles like prisoners in a cage.
Anna knelt on the rug, folding baby clothes she had found in a box—clothes Lily had outgrown years ago. Her fingers shook.
Rowan stood by the fireplace, arms crossed so tight his knuckles were white.
Holly sat on the couch, eyes red, twisting a tissue into shreds.
Jack hovered near the door, ready to catch anyone who fell.
Lily took one more step. The wood creaked.
Five heads turned at once.
"Sweetie?" Rowan's voice cracked. He crossed the room in three strides and scooped her up. She buried her face in his neck, breathing in the safe smell of pine soap and hockey gear. But even Daddy's arms couldn't stop the shaking.
Anna stood slowly, hands reaching, then falling. "Lily… baby…"
Lily peeked over Rowan's shoulder. The sight of her mother—real, close, crying—unleashed the storm.
"No!"
The word exploded out of her, louder than anyone expected. She kicked, small heels drumming against Rowan's ribs. "No, no, no!"
Rowan froze. "Lily—"
"You said she was busy!" Lily's voice was shrill, breaking. "You said she loved me but she was far away and—and—and now she's here and she's gonna leave again and take Mommy-Bear and I don't want her to go but I don't want her to stay if she's gonna disappear!"
The room went deathly quiet.
Anna made a sound like a wounded animal and sank to her knees. "I won't," she choked. "I swear, baby, I won't leave again."
But Lily was beyond listening. The tears came in huge, violent waves. She wriggled out of Rowan's arms and ran—straight to Holly.
Holly opened her arms without thinking, and Lily crashed into her, face pressed against Holly's soft red sweater. "Don't let her take me," she whispered, so quietly only Holly heard. "I want to stay with you and Daddy."
Holly's heart shattered into a thousand pieces. She held Lily so tightly her own arms trembled. Over the child's head, her eyes met Rowan's—pleading, terrified, fiercely in love with this little girl who had just chosen her.
Rowan dropped to his knees beside them, wrapping them both in his arms. "No one is taking you anywhere, baby girl. You're home. You're safe."
Anna watched from the floor, tears streaming, hands pressed to her mouth to keep the sobs inside. From her perspective, this was the moment she had feared most: the realization that she had lost the right to be Mommy. The title now belonged to the woman holding her daughter—the woman whose heart was big enough to love a child who wasn't hers.
Lily's sobs slowly quieted into hiccups. She turned in the circle of Rowan and Holly's arms, peeking at Anna with swollen eyes.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
Anna crawled closer, not touching, just near enough for Lily to see her face. "I'm scared too, baby. I was sick for a long time. In my head. But I'm better now. And I want to earn the chance to be your mommy again. Not instead of Holly. Never instead. Just… beside. If you'll let me."
Lily looked from Anna to Holly, then to Rowan. Her lower lip quivered. "Can Holly still be my Holly?"
Rowan's voice was thick. "Always."
Holly kissed the top of Lily's head. "Forever and ever."
Lily took a shaky breath. Then, slowly, she reached out one small hand toward Anna.
Anna took it like it was made of glass.
For a long moment, no one moved. Three grown-ups and one little girl, holding hands in a fragile circle on the living-room rug while the snow fell silently outside.
Then Lily spoke, her voice tiny but steady.
"Mommy… will you read me the sunshine song? The one you used to sing?"
Anna's sob broke free, but it was a happy one. She gathered Lily into her arms—careful, reverent—and began to sing, off-key and trembling.
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…"
Rowan pulled Holly against his side, his lips brushing her temple. "Thank you," he whispered. "For holding her heart when I couldn't."
Holly turned her face into his neck, tears sliding down her cheeks. "She held mine first."
Outside, the clouds parted for a moment, letting a thin shaft of winter sunlight spill across the floor—golden, fragile, and impossibly bright.
But in the driveway, Victor sat in his car, watching the scene through the window. His phone buzzed with a text from a Seattle number:
**"Time's up. Bring her back or we come for the money. All of it."**
He looked at the house—at the little girl in the window, singing with two mothers—and made a choice that would change everything.
The sunshine lasted only a minute.
Then the shadows crept back in.