The mall was a river of light and sound — holiday music looping low, store windows stitched with tiny bulbs, last-minute shoppers bustling like migrating birds. For Dawn and the kids it felt like stepping into a different life: one where money didn't have the last word and laughter could stretch past the next bill.
Amy's hand tugged at Dawn's sleeve, eyes wide at a glittering display. The twins trailed behind, mock-arguing about sneakers as if nothing heavier than that existed. "Those look like they've got more bounce than your ego," Leslie teased, and Jason shoved back with a grin.
Dawn let herself breathe in that ridiculous, ordinary squabble and smile. It was a small thing, but it steadied her.
Her phone buzzed against her thigh. She stepped into a quieter corridor and answered on instinct.
"Hello?" she whispered.
"Dawn, it's Daphne." The voice was tight, the words clipped. "I need you here right now. Adam's losing it again."
Dawn glanced back at the storefronts, at Amy balancing on tiptoes, at the twins caught mid-joke. Her chest tightened. "I'll come. Give me five minutes."
"Please—hurry," Daphne said, and the line dropped.
When she rejoined them Amy's face was alarmingly small, the way a child's face is when she tries to hold more than she should. "Was that CPS?" the girl asked, voice barely a breath.
The question landed like a stone. Dawn's smile faltered. For a moment the mall blurred into background noise, chatter, the honk of distant traffic, a child's cry and the only thing that mattered was the three faces looking up at her.
"No." Dawn said softly. "But they came yesterday. But no one's taking you away. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." She gathered them close, arms around shoulders, forehead to forehead and for a beat the world narrowed to the steadiness of their breathing. They nodded, small bodies trusting, and Dawn let the weight of the promise settle in her bones.
They paid for the small bags, the cheap trinkets that glittered like hope, and walked home lighter in step.
* * * * * *
That evening the apartment held the kind of chaos that feels like home: paper lanterns looped across the ceiling, streamers taped into smiling shapes, a tumble of popcorn kernels on the floor where Jason had declared himself king of the snacks. For once the tree in the corner didn't feel like a sad reminder; it was a ridiculous, perfectly crooked thing that Jason nearly toppled twice to everyone's delight.
The twins left for a friend's party in a flurry of noise. Dawn bundled Amy into her coat and they took the subway to the Manchesters', the city air sharp and cold, New Year's lights twinkling like private promises.
Daphne opened the door before they could knock. "You came," she said, kneeling down to Amy. "And you must be Amy — come in, sweetheart."
Daphne's gentleness had a way of erasing the lines off Dawn's face for a second. Amy laughed into the woman's apron and Dawn felt, briefly, that steadier world Daphne promised.
Upstairs, Adam's door was closed. Dawn knocked; no answer. She turned the knob and stepped into the faint scent of cologne and dust. He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders folded in on themselves like someone trying to make himself smaller.
"Hey, Adam," she said, voice low enough not to startle him.
He lifted his head and blinked like someone waking from sleep. "Who are you?"
"A friend," she said, and let him see the truth in her eyes. "Dawn Collins. You don't know me yet, but I..." She stopped. The words felt too loud here.
He tightened his jaw. "What do you want?"
"Nothing. Just talk. Or a walk. Or whatever… when you're ready." She tried to keep her tone casual, but she could feel the point of it. The thing she'd been hired to do; cooling in her mouth.
He stood, sudden and brittle. "Maybe later." He left without another word.
Downstairs, Amy and Daphne were sharing cake like two conspirators. Dawn watched them, felt the tiny springs of warm things pushing up through the cold she'd carried all day. Daphne met her eyes.
"You okay?" she asked.
Dawn's shoulders caved. She told Daphne everything: the CPS visit, the job loss, the panic that had hollowed her out overnight. Daphne listened with a steady hand on Dawn's shoulder; she didn't flinch, didn't offer tired platitudes. "You're not alone," she said simply. "We'll fix this."
For a moment Dawn let herself believe it.
* * * * * *
Across town, the Peige house smelled of wine and old grievances. Peige took her ease on an overstuffed sofa until Tara, home from college, all bright smile and nervous energy, knocked and stepped inside.
"Will Dawn and the kids be here for New Year?" Tara asked idly, and Peige's expression slid closed.
"No," Peige said. "She's ungrateful. She's moved on. People say she's selling herself to live like that."
Tara's face shifted, a flicker of disbelief, then a quiet thoughtfulness. The seed was planted: doubt that dragged at memory. Tara left with a softness to her step that didn't belong to someone with certainty.
* * * * * *
New Year's Eve in the city was loud and glittering and full of strangers kissing under neon. Inside the Manchester mansion the mood stayed low, the laughter polite, the plates full but the eyes empty.
Dawn arrived bringing presents, hugging Daphne, then moving upstairs to find Adam. He sat again, a shadow in fine clothes, staring at a wardrobe like a puzzle he couldn't solve.
"I brought good news," she tried. "We can celebrate together. Ava, you, me. Make it simple."
Adam's jaw tightened until it seemed like a line drawn in stone. "Please. Leave me alone. And stay away from Ava."
The words were a slap. Dawn should have been hurt, but what stung most was the wall between him and any possibility of a future that included her. She left quietly and, instead, spent midnight with her siblings. Firework light reflecting in their faces as they counted down and shouted into the night: "Three, two, one, Happy New Year!" They clung to each other, and for a breath it felt like promise.
* * * * * *
The next day, Daphne set a table like a blessing: platters and bowls arranged with care, candles that made the room amber. The feast carried warmth, but Adam's chair was empty.
Dawn excused herself and climbed the stairs. She found Adam in the same place, clothes laid out like a life he couldn't step into. She sat beside him, close enough that he could feel the shape of her.
"Everything's going to be alright," she whispered.
Adam pulled away. "Get out."
Somewhere between hurt and stubbornness something in Dawn snapped. She didn't leave. She leaned in instead and kissed him.
It was quick — a thief of a thing — but the room changed on its axis. Adam froze, eyes wide. Dawn's heart hammered so loud she thought it might be the only sound in the house, but it felt less like stealing and more like reaching for a bridge.
He didn't push her away. He didn't pull her close. He simply stared; a man holding a question, and the silence after the kiss was thicker than any argument.
* * * * * *
That night the city hummed on, unaware of the small catastrophe and the smaller hope that played out in a quiet bedroom. Dawn walked home with her shoulders raw and a strange heat low in her chest. Hope and fear tangled like threads she didn't know how to separate.
She had promised the kids she'd keep them safe. She'd promised herself she would not keep anything that wasn't hers. Now, with the taste of his lips still there, the promises rearranged themselves in her head like pieces of a puzzle she had to solve.
Outside, a cold wind swept down the avenue and rattled the last dry leaves from the trees. Dawn pulled her coat tighter and thought, not for the first time, how precarious a life could be. How quickly the world could tip from shelter to storm.
But she also thought, stubbornly, that maybe shelter could be rebuilt with truth, with kindness, and with one messy, human mistake after another.