Not their aunt.

Not their father.

A hired lawyer, looking up from his paperwork to remind a man that his own children were not a scheduling problem.

It told me how far the rot had spread, that the closest thing to a defender my girls had in that office was a person who had never met them.

And it told me one more thing, something steadier and more useful: that decent people are scattered everywhere through the world, in unexpected chairs, and that a woman starting over with two children and a suitcase is never quite as alone as the people leaving her would prefer she feel.

“Here comes the drama,” Bryce muttered, rolling his eyes.