Chapter 1

Mya

The clock hasn't even hit seven when I unlock the shop doors. The familiar smell of motor oil and metal greets me, a scent that used to make my nose wrinkle as a kid but now feels like home. Dad's already in the back, the metallic clanking of tools against an engine block creating the morning's soundtrack.

"Coffee's brewing," I call out, flipping on all the lights.

"You're a lifesaver, baby girl," Dad shouts back, his voice echoing from underneath a raised Honda.

I settle behind the counter, booting up the ancient computer that's been threatening to die for the past three years. The appointment book sits open beside me, today's page already filled with names, times, and brief descriptions of automotive ailments.

The phone rings before I've even had my first sip of coffee.

"Summers Auto, this is Mya speaking."

"Hey there, sweetheart. My truck's making that damn noise again."

I recognize Mr. Sanchez's gravelly voice immediately. "The grinding or the ticking?"

"The grinding. Gets worse when I turn left."

My pen flies across the notepad. "I can squeeze you in at two. That work?"

"Perfect. You're an angel."

I hang up and immediately field another call. Mrs. Rogers needs her oil changed yesterday, and a new customer wants to know if we work on foreign cars. Between calls, I update the inventory spreadsheet, marking down the parts we need to order before the week's end.

Dad emerges from the garage bay, wiping his hands on a rag. "How's it looking today?"

"Packed solid until closing. You sure you don't want me to cancel my lunch break again?"

He frowns. "Absolutely not. You've skipped enough meals this month."

He doesn't understand that every hour I work is another bill I can pay, another thing I can provide for Kayden. Single motherhood is a mathematical equation I'm constantly recalculating.

The morning blurs into a stream of customers, paperwork, and parts catalogs. I'm elbow-deep in organizing next week's schedule when the bell above the door jingles.

"Well, if it isn't Mya Summers, running this place like a damn CEO."

I look up to see Trevor Michaels, an old high school classmate who brings his work truck in regularly. His smile is genuine, but I catch the familiar glint in his eyes, that mixture of curiosity and judgment I've grown accustomed to.

"Just doing my job," I reply, sliding his invoice across the counter. "Brake pads are all set."

"You know, most of the girls from our class are still out partying every weekend." He leans against the counter. "Meanwhile, you're here grinding away."

I force a smile. "Some of us had to grow up faster than others."

"That kid of yours must be what now? Five? Six?"

"Six," I answer, taking his credit card.

"Still doing it all on your own, huh?"

The question stings more than it should. Last night, I'd sat up until midnight helping Kayden with his dinosaur project after an eleven-hour workday, carefully gluing tiny plastic teeth onto a papier-mâché T-Rex while he bounced around in dinosaur pajamas, fighting sleep but determined to finish. Then woke at five to make his lunch. Peanut butter with the crusts cut off, apple slices arranged in a smiley face, and a handwritten note like my mama used to do for me, before dropping him at before-school care in the blue dawn light while other parents were still hitting snooze.

"We manage just fine," I say, my voice sharper than intended, fingers tightening around the credit card machine.

Trevor raises his hands in surrender, that same look on his face I've seen a thousand times before. "Hey, I respect it. Not everyone could handle what you do. Seriously, it's impressive."

That's the thing about being a young single mom—people's compliments often feel like they're wrapped around a brick. Sure, they respect my hustle, but the subtext is always there: poor girl, trapped by her mistakes. Like I'm some cautionary tale they can point to while feeling superior about their life choices.

But Kayden isn't a mistake. Not one damn bit. He's the reason I push through exhaustion, the reason I've learned to change spark plugs and balance books with equal skill. He's why I memorized multiplication tables while nursing him at 3 AM, why I can now fix a carburetor with one hand and pack a lunchbox with the other.

I hand Trevor his receipt, my professional smile sliding back into place like a well-worn mask. "See you in three months for your next service. Don't forget to rotate those tires before then."

After Trevor leaves, I steal a quiet moment between customers. My thumb hovers over my phone screen, swiping through photos of Kayden. There's one from last week—him standing proudly next to his science project, gap-toothed smile wide beneath those striking blue eyes that never fail to remind me of their source.

Another photo shows him sprawled on our living room floor, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration as he builds a Lego spaceship. In the next, he's asleep on the couch, one arm dangling off the edge, curls falling across his forehead.

My chest tightens. He's growing so damn fast. Those baby cheeks have thinned, his expressions more complex every day. Six years old and already asking questions I struggle to answer.

"Where's my dad?" he'd asked three nights ago, completely out of nowhere while I tucked him in.

The question hit me like a sucker punch to the gut, those innocent blue eyes watching me with an expectation I couldn't possibly fulfill. Six years, and it never gets easier to hear.

"It's complicated, baby," I'd replied, the same inadequate answer I always give. The words tasted stale on my tongue, a worn-out excuse that was growing thinner with each passing year.

"Matthew's dad takes him fishing every weekend," he'd said, eyes downcast, his small fingers picking at a loose thread on his Spider-Man comforter. "And Jasmine's dad taught her how to ride a bike without training wheels. She showed everyone at recess."

I'd smoothed his blanket, swallowing the lump in my throat that threatened to choke me. My heart shattered a little more, adding another crack to the collection. "I can teach you that this weekend," I offered, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice while mentally rearranging my already packed schedule.

"It's not the same," he'd whispered, turning away from me slightly. The quiet defeat in his voice cut deeper than any tantrum ever could.

I hadn't known what to say after that. What could I say? That his father walked out before he was even born? That the man who gave him those striking blue eyes couldn't handle the responsibility of a relationship, let alone an unexpected pregnancy? That sometimes I still wake up angry at the universe for giving my son a father who didn't want the job?

Dad's gruff voice breaks through my thoughts. "Mya. Mya? Hello? Earth to Mya?" He waves a greasy hand in front of my face. "Looks like I'm talking to a damn brick wall again. Mrs. Hernandez called about her timing belt. Says it's making that weird noise you warned her about last month."

I lock my phone quickly. "Sorry. I'll call her back."

"You okay?" He studies my face with mechanic's precision, looking for signs of trouble.

"Just tired." The standard answer.

The afternoon rush hits like a tsunami wave. Three oil changes, a transmission flush, and a belt replacement that fights us every step of the way. I forget about everything except the work in front of me, letting the familiar rhythm of the garage wash over me. This is what I'm good at. This is what keeps food on our table.

By closing time, my shoulders ache and my hair sticks to the back of my neck. Dad counts the day's take while I wipe down the counter, mind already racing ahead to tomorrow's logistics. Kayden has soccer practice after school, which means I need to find someone to cover the last hour at the shop if we run late on the Jacobson job.

"You look like you're solving world hunger in your head," Dad says, rubber-banding a stack of bills.

"Just juggling the usual impossible schedule."

He sighs, setting the money aside. "You know, you don't have to carry everything yourself."

"Who else is going to do it?" I keep wiping, avoiding his eyes.

"I've been thinking about hiring another mechanic. Someone young with good hands. Would take some pressure off."

"We can't afford that."

"We can't afford you burning out either." His voice softens. "I saw you looking at Kayden's pictures again."

I pause, rag clutched in my fist. "He asked about Dylan last night."

Dad's expression darkens. "That boy has a lot to answer for."

"He doesn't even know he has a son." The words feel heavy, loaded with six years of unsaid things.

"Maybe it's time he did."

I shake my head. "And risk him coming back, turning Kayden's life upside down, then disappearing again when things get tough? That's his pattern."

"People change, Mya."

"Not Dylan Huntington. His type crashes through life without looking back at the wreckage." I throw the rag into the sink. "I've built something solid for Kayden. Something stable. I won't let Dylan threaten that."

Dad stands, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "You're the strongest person I know, baby girl. But sometimes being strong means facing what scares you most."

"I'm not scared," I lie.

"Sure." He kisses the top of my head. "And I'm not losing my hair."

I laugh despite myself, leaning into his solid presence. "I just want to do right by my son."

"You already are. Every single day."