Chapter 1 

Janelle

The alarm screams at 5:47 AM, and I'm already awake, staring at the ceiling like I've been doing for the past twenty minutes. My body has this annoying habit of jerking me out of sleep before I'm ready, as if it knows something I don't—like the day ahead is going to require every ounce of energy I can scrape together.

I roll out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor of our cramped two-bedroom apartment. The floors creak in all the familiar spots as I pad toward the kitchen, muscle memory guiding me through the darkness. Coffee first. Always coffee first.

The ancient coffee maker gurgles to life, filling the silence with something that sounds almost like contentment. I lean against the counter, rubbing my eyes, and catch my reflection in the microwave door. My natural curls are doing that thing where they stick up at impossible angles, and there's a pillow crease running down my left cheek. At thirty-four, I should probably have figured out how to sleep without looking like I've been through a wind tunnel.

"Mama J, you look like you stuck your finger in a light socket."

I glance over and spot Stacey  standing in the doorway, her own curls somehow perfectly arranged despite the early hour. She's wearing her favorite purple pajamas—the ones with the unicorns that are starting to fray around the edges—and she's got that sleepy smile that makes my chest feel too tight.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine." I reach for her, and she slides into my arms like she belongs there, which she does. "How'd you sleep?"

"Good. I dreamed about flying again." She tilts her head back to look at me, her dark eyes—so much like mine—bright with excitement. "But this time I had rainbow wings, and I could carry people with me. Want to know who I carried?"

"Tell me." I pour my coffee, inhaling the bitter aroma like it's life itself.

"You, obviously. And my teacher, Mr. Harrison, 'cause he's nice and he smells like those cinnamon things you put in your coffee. And Grammy, so she wouldn't have to walk so much when her hip hurts." She counts on her fingers, completely serious. "Oh, and the librarian, Mrs. Scott, because she lets me take extra books home."

My heart does this fluttery thing it always does when she talks about her dreams. At eight years old, Stacey still believes in magic, still thinks the world is full of possibilities. I want to wrap that innocence around her like armor, protect it from all the sharp edges I know are coming.

"That's a lot of people to carry," I say, smoothing down her curls. "Think your rainbow wings are strong enough?"

"They're magic wings, Mama J. They can carry anyone who needs carrying."

The coffee tastes like salvation as it hits my tongue, and I close my eyes for just a second, letting the caffeine work its way through my system. When I open them, Stacey's watching me with that too-knowing expression that sometimes makes me forget she's still a child.

"You're tired again," she says, not a question.

"I'm always tired, baby girl. That's what grown-ups do—we collect tired like other people collect stamps."

She giggles, and the sound loosens something in my chest. "That's silly. Why would anyone want to get tired?"

"Because we're silly grown-ups who make silly choices." I kiss the top of her head, drawing in the warmth of her scent. "Speaking of which, this silly grown-up needs to get ready for work, and this silly kid needs to get ready for school."

"Can I have the cereal with the marshmallows?"

"Nice try. You can have cereal with fake fruit that's supposedly good for you."

She makes an exaggerated groaning sound and throws herself dramatically against the counter. "But the marshmallows give me energy for learning!"

"The fake fruit gives you energy for learning. The marshmallows give you energy for bouncing off the walls, which your teacher does not appreciate."

"Mr. Harrison doesn't mind when I bounce. He says I have 'kinetic energy' and that's a good thing."

I pause, my coffee mug halfway to my lips. "He said that?"

"Uh-huh. Yesterday when I couldn't sit still during math, he said some people think better when they move around, and that's totally normal. Then he let me stand at the back of the class and do jumping jacks while I worked on my times tables."

Something warm spreads through my chest—gratitude, maybe, or relief. Most teachers have tried to make Stacey sit still, as if her natural energy is something to be contained rather than channeled. The fact that this new teacher gets it, gets her, makes me want to send him a thank-you card.

"He sounds like a good teacher," I say carefully.

"He's the best. Yesterday he brought in his guitar and taught us a song about fractions. And he has green eyes like sea glass, and he always smells like books and that hand sanitizer from the nurse's office."

I file away this information, the way I always do when Stacey talks about the adults in her life. It's a habit I developed years ago—cataloging the people who are kind to her, the ones who see her the way I do. Those people are rare, and I guard their names like treasures.

"Alright, sea-glass-eyes aside, you still need to eat breakfast and get dressed. School starts in exactly one hour and seventeen minutes."

She salutes me with mock seriousness. "Yes, ma'am, General Mama J!"

I watch her bounce toward her room, her energy infectious even at this ungodly hour. This is my favorite part of the day—these quiet morning moments before the world intrudes, when it's just us and the coffee and the possibility of flying on rainbow wings.

My phone buzzes against the counter, and I glance at the screen. Three missed calls from my manager at the bank. My stomach drops, because Nancy never calls this early unless something's wrong.

"Mama J!" Stacey's voice carries from her room. "Can you help me find my math folder? I can't remember where I put it!"

"Check your backpack!" I call back, already dialing Nancy's number. The phone rings once before she picks up.

"Janelle, thank God. Listen, I need you to come in early today. Marcus called in sick, and we've got that audit team coming in at nine. I know it's short notice, but—"

"How early?" I'm already calculating in my head—drop-off time, traffic, the fifteen minutes I usually spend in the car psyching myself up for another day of pretending I have my life together.

"Like, now. I mean, as soon as you can get here. I'll owe you big time."

I close my eyes, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders. "I'll be there in forty-five minutes."

"You're a lifesaver. Seriously."

I hang up and lean against the counter, allowing myself exactly five seconds to feel sorry for myself. Five seconds to imagine a world where I could drink my coffee slowly, where I could sit with Stacey while she eats her breakfast and tell me more about her dreams.

Five seconds. Then I'm moving again.

"Stacey!" I call out, grabbing my travel mug and filling it with coffee. "Change of plans, baby girl. We're leaving in twenty minutes."

"But I haven't found my math folder!"

"Check the kitchen table. And hurry up with getting dressed—Mama J's got to save the world today."

She appears in the doorway, clutching her math folder and wearing her school uniform inside-out. "How are you going to save the world?"

"By making sure people's money doesn't disappear into thin air." I help her flip her shirt right-side-out, my fingers working quickly. "Very important world-saving work."

"That doesn't sound like world-saving. That sounds like regular job stuff."

Smart kid. Too smart sometimes. "Regular job stuff is world-saving when it pays for our apartment and your school supplies and those books you're always bringing home from the library."

She considers this while I braid her hair, my fingers working through the familiar routine. "So you're like a superhero, but instead of fighting bad guys, you fight... math?"

"I fight spreadsheets and incompetent auditors, which is basically the same thing."

She giggles, and I feel some of the tension ease from my shoulders. This is what I do it for—these moments of pure joy, this little girl who thinks I'm capable of fighting spreadsheets and saving the world.

"Can I have extra lunch money today?" she asks, trying to sound casual. "For the book fair."

"How much extra?"

"Just like... twenty dollars?"

I snort. "Twenty dollars? What are you buying, leather-bound first editions?"

"There's this really cool book about space, and another one about kids who solve mysteries, and—"

"Five dollars. And only if you promise to read them, not just look at the pictures."

"Deal!" She spins around, already running toward the door. "But I always read them, Mama J. Pictures are just a bonus."

I grab my purse, my keys, and the lunch I packed last night, doing a mental inventory of everything I need to remember. Parent-teacher conferences are next week. I need to request time off. Stacey needs new sneakers—hers are starting to look more gray than white. The electric bill is due Friday, and I need to call the landlord about the leak in the bathroom ceiling.

The list is endless, but it's mine. This life, this beautiful, exhausting, perfectly imperfect life, is mine.

"Ready, Mama J?" Stacey's standing by the door, backpack on, hair braided, looking like she's ready to conquer the world.

"Ready, baby girl."

We step out into the morning, and I lock the door behind us, tucking away another day, another small victory. The sun is just starting to peek over the buildings, painting everything in shades of gold and possibility.

"Mama J?" Stacey slips her small hand into mine while making our way to the car.

"Yeah?"

"I love our mornings."

My throat tightens, and I squeeze her hand. "Me too, sunshine. Me too."

The day ahead is going to be long, filled with spreadsheets and auditors and the constant juggling act of being everything to everyone. But right now, in this moment, walking hand-in-hand with this incredible little person who chose me as much as I chose her, I feel like I could fly on rainbow wings.

Even without the magic.