Chapter 1

Mary

The morning sun filters through half-drawn blinds, casting golden stripes across my tiny kitchen. The smell of buttered toast and scrambled eggs fills our apartment—a cozy one-bedroom in Queens that somehow manages to feel both like a sanctuary and a storage unit. Toys spill from a basket in the corner, yesterday's laundry drapes over the back of our second-hand couch, and sticky notes with reminders plaster the refrigerator like modern art.

"Jackson, sweetie, arms up," I say, wielding a blue dinosaur t-shirt while simultaneously flipping eggs with my free hand.

"No, Mommy!" Jackson giggles, hiding behind his tower of colorful blocks. "T-Rex can't wear clothes!"

I arch an eyebrow at my four-year-old son, who's currently crawling around in his underwear, making growling noises. The morning light catches his features—those green eyes so much like his father's that sometimes it takes my breath away.

"Well, this T-Rex is going to preschool today, and Ms. Patel has a strict 'no naked dinosaurs' policy." I place the spatula down and crouch to his level. "Besides, don't you want to show everyone your cool new shirt?"

Jackson considers this, tiny fingers tapping his chin. "Does T-Rex get pancakes if he wears the shirt?"

"T-Rex gets scrambled eggs today." I ruffle his curls. "But if T-Rex is really good this week, pancakes might happen on Saturday."

The toast pops, and I stretch across the kitchen to grab it before it cools.

"Deal!" Jackson raises his arms, allowing me to slip the shirt over his head. His dark curls spring out from the collar, wild and untamed like mine.

I butter the toast one-handed while helping Jackson step into his jeans. Multitasking isn't just a skill anymore—it's survival.

"Mommy, can I put jelly on my toast?"

"Sure, buddy, just—" The smell of something burning hits my nostrils. "Shoot!"

I lunge for the stove, rescuing the eggs just before they transform from fluffy yellow to charcoal black. Not a complete disaster—just a little crispy around the edges. I scrape them onto two mismatched plates.

"Blocks away, breakfast time!" I call, placing Jackson's plate at our small table.

My phone buzzes aggressively in my pocket as Jackson climbs onto his booster seat. I pull it out to see five new emails, all marked urgent, all from my colleagues at Whitley Enterprises. I haven't spent too long back in the city, but I managed to snag this accounting job after impressing the CEO during my interview. God, I can still remember just how badly my hands shook in those final moments.

"Can you start eating while Mommy checks something real quick?" I set my own plate down, dropping a quick kiss on Jackson's forehead.

"Is it work stuff again?" He picks up his fork, stabbing at the eggs with more enthusiasm than precision.

"Yeah, baby. Just work stuff." I scroll through the messages, my chest tightening. "They need me to look at some numbers," I explain, thumbs flying over my phone screen.

"Like when I count my blocks wrong?" Jackson's mouth is already ringed with toast crumbs.

I laugh, swiping a napkin across his face. "Something like that. Except Mommy didn't count wrong—they just changed how many blocks we're using."

My phone buzzes again. Another email, this one from my boss, Austin: "Can you join the 9 AM call with Westfield?"

I glance at the clock: 7:42. Daycare drop-off is at 8:15, and it's a fifteen-minute walk on good days.

"We need to speed things up a bit, buddy." I take a quick bite of my own eggs, now cold, while typing a one-handed reply: "I'll be there."

Jackson, sensing my shift in energy, shovels eggs into his mouth at impressive speed. "I'm being super-fast, Mommy!"

"Great job!" I down half my coffee in one gulp, feeling the warm caffeine hit my system. "Let's get your teeth brushed while I find your shoes."

I swipe through my phone calendar while guiding Jackson to the bathroom, mentally calculating how many minutes I can shave off our morning routine without resorting to a taxi we can't afford.

"Brush in circles, remember?" I call to him while scanning the living room for his missing sneaker. My phone buzzes again. A text from the daycare director: "Reminder: Career Day tomorrow! Jackson says you're coming to talk about 'money numbers.'"

Career Day. Tomorrow. Damn it.

I find the missing sneaker under our threadbare armchair, the weight of too many responsibilities pressing down on my shoulders. But what choice do I have? This is our life—my life—carefully balanced like Jackson's block tower, each piece supporting everything above it.

"Found it!" I announce, forcing cheer into my voice. "Time for shoes, and then we fly like superheroes to school!"

Jackson emerges from the bathroom, toothpaste foam decorating his chin. "Can we really fly?"

"Only in our imaginations, buddy." I grab a tissue to wipe the toothpaste from his chin. "But we can pretend while we walk super-duper fast."

My phone buzzes again—another email alert—but I silence it and tuck it into my pocket. The work chaos can wait for five minutes while I get my son's shoes on.

Jackson's eyes light up as I kneel before him. "Arms out like Superman?"

"Exactly." I slip his tiny feet into his sneakers, fastening the Velcro straps. "Ready for takeoff in three, two, one..."

He giggles as I tickle his sides, and the sound cuts through all the morning stress like sunlight through clouds. Despite the rushed breakfast, the looming work call, and the forgotten Career Day commitment, I find myself smiling—really smiling—as I watch him pretend to soar around our cramped living room.

This is what matters. In all the chaos, this little boy with his father's eyes and my stubborn spirit is what matters.

I gather his dinosaur backpack and my worn leather tote, doing a mental inventory: his lunch is packed, my laptop is charged, keys are in my pocket. We're as ready as we'll ever be.

"Mommy?" Jackson tugs at my sleeve as I lock our apartment door. "Are you a superhero too?"

The question catches me off guard. "Me? Why do you ask that?"

"Because..." He scrunches his face in concentration. "You make breakfast and fix my toys and go to work and read me stories and know how to count really big numbers."

My throat tightens as I take his hand, heading down the stairs of our walk-up. "That doesn't make me a superhero, just your mom."

"Same thing," he declares with four-year-old certainty.

I squeeze his hand, warmth spreading through my chest. Four years ago, I never could have imagined this life. When Preston's family rejected me—rejected us—I was devastated, lost, terrified. A pregnant young woman with no family support, no partner, and a mountain of student loans. The night I left New York to go be with family in South Carolina, cradling my belly and sobbing until my throat was raw, I couldn't see a future beyond the next day.

Now look at us. Back in New York City, four chaotic years behind us.

We burst out of the building into the morning sunlight, Jackson skipping beside me, chattering about dinosaurs and superheroes as we navigate the busy sidewalk. The city pulses around us—honking taxis, coffee-clutching commuters, street vendors setting up for the day.

"Remember to hold my hand at the crosswalks," I remind him as we approach the first intersection.

"I know, Mommy. I'm a big boy."

Four years, a completed accounting degree, and a promising job later, we're making it. Not just surviving, but building something. Sure, our apartment is tiny and my student loans are still monstrous, but we have each other. And I have this career I fought so hard for.

The accounting position at Whitley Enterprises wasn't handed to me—I earned it through late nights studying while Jackson slept, through networking events where I couldn't afford the proper attire, through interviews where I had to prove twice as much as everyone else.

The light changes, and we cross the street, Jackson hopping over cracks in the concrete.

"Ms. Patel says I'm the best counter in class," he announces proudly. "I counted to fifty yesterday!"

"That's amazing!" My smile widens. "Maybe you'll be an accountant like me someday."

"Or a dinosaur scientist," he counters. "Or both!"

"Or both," I agree, feeling that fierce pride only a mother knows. His possibilities stretch endlessly before him—possibilities I'm fighting to keep open.

We round the corner to his preschool, joining the stream of parents and children flowing through the gates. A few of the other mothers wave to me, and I wave back. We're not close—I don't have time for playdates or PTA meetings—but they're friendly enough.

"Will you really come tomorrow to talk about money numbers?" Jackson asks as we approach his classroom.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world." I crouch down to his level, adjusting his backpack straps. The commitment will mean juggling my schedule, maybe working late tonight, but seeing his face light up makes the decision easy.

I smooth down his wild curls, thinking of how far we've come and how much further we still have to go. This balance—mother and professional, provider and nurturer—isn't easy. Some would say it's almost impossible, and on the worst days, I agree with them.

But seeing this boy smile makes it all worth it. I'd do anything for Jackson. And I don't need anyone else in the world besides him.