Page 20 of Drop the Mitts

Chapter

Eight

Grace

Grace had never wantedto knock on a door less. Just a few weeks ago she’d been here celebrating the ten-day mark after the adoption papers were signed. Now she had to walk in there and . . . say what?

Ugh, how could she do this to them? She clutched her midsection and whirled on the porch, walking across the deck boards to curl over the railing. This wasn’t fair, none of it. And the worst part was, there was nobody to blame. Amey was convinced she didn’t know the timeline. The social worker was sure they’d had the conversation, but there was no documentation.

She couldn’t blame the therapist for reporting—that was her job—and she couldn’t blame herself, either. The paperwork had looked like it was in order. Why would she have ever thought to second-guess any of the other professionals?

The whole thing was a mess.

But how could she say no to Jenna and Country?

Tyler had told her their story one night when she’d visited him and Emma. That night, she’d gone down the rabbit hole on Turner’s syndrome, and that weekend, she’d gone out to lunch with Jenna.

She loved her immediately, and she loved the idea of doing something meaningful.

Not that property law didn’t matter, but it was often the opposite of heartwarming.

Property law equaled contracts and clauses, negotiations that went in circles, and clients who fought over easements and land use regulations like their lives depended on it. It was development disputes, last-minute financing collapses, and municipal bylaws that never seemed to favour anyone. It involved powerful men in suits with too much money and not enough patience, and investors looking to squeeze every last dollar out of the land beneath them.

It was tangible and high-stakes in a financial sense. But it wasn’t this. It wasn’t a child’s future.

Grace inhaled deeply, straightened her spine, and turned toward the farmhouse. The air was crisp and sharp, biting at her skin as she adjusted the collar of her coat. Alberta winters had a way of waking a person up whether they were ready or not.

She smoothed her hair, clenched her jaw, and knocked firmly on the door as her breath curled around her.

A beat later, the door swung open.

Jenna stood there, messy ponytail, wearing an oversized sweater, Hope resting against her hip. Hope’s chubby fingers tangled in the fabric of Jenna’s shirt, her little face pressed into her mother’s collarbone, still groggy from sleep.

The sight made Grace’s chest ache so fiercely she almost had to take a step back.

“Grace!” Jenna moved aside, ushering her in. “Hope woke up at five, and I couldn’t get her to go back to sleep. Normally, I flysolo for a couple of hours while Country is out doing chores with Polk, but since we knew you were stopping by?—”

“I made breakfast.” Country appeared behind her, his massive frame filling the doorway. He rubbed a hand through his unruly morning hair, already dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. “You hungry? We’ve got pancakes.”

Grace’s throat tightened. She tried to smile, but it barely held. The farmhouse smelled like coffee and maple syrup, the kind of warm, familiar scents that belonged to slow mornings and safe places.

It was homey, lived in, loved.

And Grace was about to drop a bomb in the middle of it.

The wooden floors creaked under her step as she shut the door behind her, shrugging out of her coat. She kicked off her shoes at the door, the cold from outside still clinging to her legs as she followed Jenna and Country into the kitchen.

Jenna moved on autopilot, settling Hope into her swing, then grabbing a clean mug from the cupboard. Country moved to the stove, flipping thick golden pancakes, the scent of butter and cinnamon curling through the air. A plate of crispy bacon sat on the counter beside a bowl of scrambled eggs, piled high, steam still rising off of them.

It was the kind of scene that should’ve been comforting. It made what she had to say so much worse.

Jenna poured a cup of coffee and looked up, her brow furrowing slightly at Grace’s expression. “You okay?”

No. She wasn’t. There was no amount of small talk that was going to make this easier to say, so Grace ripped off the Band-Aid. “I got an email yesterday from Neel Patel, Amey’s lawyer.”

The air shifted. Country’s movements stilled, spatula hovering over the frying pan for just a second too long before he set it down. Jenna’s hand tightened around the handle of her mug.

Grace drew a breath, forcing herself to push through. “She’s petitioning to revoke the adoption.”

---