Chapter 4 - Safe Harbor
My apartment was seventy miles away from Bethany's rented suburban house, located on the third floor of a brick building on the quiet outskirts of the city. It had always felt a little too large and quiet for a single woman with two indoor cats.
Tonight, it felt like an emergency sanctuary.
By three in the morning, the signatures were inked on the temporary protective custody paperwork. Amanda Martinez had personally escorted us to my building, carried a sleeping Toby up the two flights of stairs, and conducted a swift walkthrough of the apartment.
"You have food in the pantry, functional smoke detectors, and clean running water," Amanda had said, her voice gentle as she handed me an emergency folder. "That makes you light-years ahead of where they came from. I will submit the preliminary kinship report to the family court judge first thing in the morning. An emergency custody hearing will be scheduled within seventy-two hours."
"Will Bethany be there?" I asked, leaning against my kitchen island, exhaustion threatening to pull me to the floor.
"If she makes bail, yes. If not, she will appear via video link from the county detention center," Amanda replied. She placed a hand on my shoulder. "Sarah, you did the right thing. If you hadn't called tonight, those kids might not have survived that house. Remember that when the rest of your family starts calling."
I didn't fully understand the weight of her warning until after she left.
I spent the next hour setting up makeshift sleeping quarters. I laid Toby down in my queen-sized bed, propping pillows on both sides so he wouldn't roll. Leo was already sound asleep on the living room sofa, clutching a fleece throw blanket I had bought last Christmas. Chloe curled up on the chaise lounge, still refusing to let go of her stuffed rabbit.
Mason was the only one still awake.
He stood in the kitchen doorway, wearing oversized sweatpants and a faded graphic T-shirt that looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks. He looked so small against the doorframe, his shoulders hunched inward as if trying to take up as little space in the world as possible.
"Mason," I said softly, crouching down so I was at his eye level. "Hey. Why aren't you resting?"
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "Aunt Sarah... are you going to send us to a group home when you get tired of us?"
The question struck me like a physical blow. A dull ache bloomed in the center of my chest.
"Look at me, Mason," I demanded gently, waiting until his dark, guarded eyes met mine. "I have loved you from the second the nurses put you in my arms eleven years ago. I am never going to get tired of you. You, Chloe, Leo, and Toby are staying with me. Nobody is going to a group home. Nobody is locking you in a room. Nobody is using you."
Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, but he aggressively blinked them away, ashamed of his vulnerability. "Mom said you hated us. She said you only helped because you wanted to make her look like a bad parent."
"Your mother was lying to keep control over you," I said firmly, refusing to sugarcoat reality for a boy who had already been forced to act like a thirty-year-old man. "What she did tonight—leaving you with a burning stove, locking the doors—that was wrong. It was dangerous. And I promise you, on my life, you will never have to protect your siblings from fire or hunger ever again. That’s my job now. Do you hear me?"
Mason stared at me for a long time. Then, with a shuddering breath that sounded like a dam breaking, he stepped forward and buried his face into my shoulder.
I wrapped my arms around him, holding him tightly as his small frame trembled with silent, shuddering sobs. I held him until the shaking stopped, until the heavy weight of his head against my chest told me he had finally surrendered to exhaustion.
I guided him to the air mattress I had inflated in my home office, tucked him under a thick quilt, and kissed his forehead.
"Sleep, Mason," I whispered. "You're safe."
I walked back into the living room, turned off the overhead lights, and collapsed into the armchair by the window.
The silence lasted exactly four minutes.
On the glass coffee table, my phone lit up. The screen glowed with an incoming FaceTime call from an unsaved number, followed immediately by five consecutive text messages from my mother.
I picked up the device.
**MOM:** *Sarah Jean Hayes, what have you done?! Bethany is calling me from jail screaming! She says you set her up and stole her children! Answer your damn phone right now!*
**MOM:** *Travis is facing federal charges! Do you have any idea what this is going to do to our family’s reputation?*
**MOM:** *You are an ungrateful, vindictive monster. Pick up the phone or I am driving to your apartment right now!*
I looked at the messages, my thumbs hovering over the glass. Five years ago, three years ago, even yesterday morning, those texts would have sent me spiraling into panic, apologizing, appeasing, sacrificing myself to keep the peace.
I tapped the screen, opened the contact settings for my mother, and pressed **Block Contact**.
May you like
Then, I turned the phone face down, leaned my head back against the cushion, and closed my eyes. The war had just begun, but for the first time in six years, I was no longer fighting on their terms.
***
