Chapter 2: The Signature She Wanted
By eight, Gemma had covered the back of the motel breakfast menu in purple circles.
She sat cross-legged on the bed in her pajamas, her crayons scattered between us. I had opened PLAN B on my phone and was checking the list against what we’d packed: identification, birth certificate, bank information, a few pay stubs. Every item was something I could hold. The future was harder.
“Look, Mama. Moon.”
“That’s a very purple moon.”
“It’s a grape moon.”
I smiled, and she went back to coloring. Beside her, the folded clothes we’d brought from the apartment looked too small for the life I was trying to arrange around them.
My phone rang. Mom’s name lit the screen.
I watched it buzz once, twice. Then I answered.
“Paige. You need to come by today.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“This is important. I have a paper for you to sign.”
My fingers tightened around the phone. Across the bed, Gemma leaned over her coloring as if she hadn’t heard, but the room was so small there was nowhere for a voice to go.
“What paper?”
“It’s to keep the apartment safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“Don’t make this difficult. Bring your ID, like I told you.”
“I’m not signing something I haven’t seen.”
A brief silence, followed by the hard little breath Mom used when she thought someone was being unreasonable.
“You can read it there.”
“Then tell me what it says.”
“It’s a family matter, Paige. You don’t need to turn everything into an interrogation.”
I looked at the phone checklist, at the words I’d added before dawn: Ask what she wants before agreeing to anything. The reminder had seemed almost embarrassingly simple when I wrote it. Now Mom was trying to make a question sound like an offense.
“If it’s only to keep the apartment safe, you can tell me what it does.”
“Come over, and I’ll explain.”
“Will anyone else be there?”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It’s the point if you’re asking me to sign.”
The silence changed. Not longer, exactly. Colder.
“You’re making this ugly,” she said. “You’ve been gone one night, and already you’re acting like we’re strangers.”
I looked at Gemma’s purple moon. She had colored so hard the paper had torn in the middle.
“I’m arranging a time to pick up her things,” I said. “I’ll come during the day. I’ll read whatever you want me to read. I’m not promising to sign it.”
Mom sighed as if I’d asked her to carry something heavy.
“You never trust anyone in this family.”
“I’m asking what the paper says.”
“You’re asking because you’ve decided we’re trying to hurt you.”
I hadn’t decided that. I’d only heard Dad’s warning, seen it disappear, and learned that Mom wanted a signature without naming what it would mean. The distinction felt important, even if she wouldn’t let it stand.
“I’ll be there at eleven,” I said. “I want Gemma’s clothes, her books, and the rest of her things. I’ll bring my ID. I’ll read every page before I make any decision.”
“I said this isn’t about her things.”
“It is for me.”
“You always do this,” she snapped. “You take one disagreement and turn it into a scene.”
I lowered my voice. “I’m not coming to fight.”
“Then stop acting like I’m your enemy.”
Before I could answer, she ended the call.
Gemma held up the menu. The grape moon had acquired a row of green dots beneath it.
“Mommy, look.”
“I see it.”
“Can I take my crayons?”
“Absolutely.”
I put the phone facedown and crouched beside her. My hand found the back of her shirt, warm from the bed. She had no idea what a signature could change, or why my mother could make a question feel like standing on the wrong side of a locked door. She only knew we had left her yellow rain boots behind and that the motel pillow smelled strange.
“We’re going to get some of your things,” I told her.
“My bunny?”
“If it’s there.”
“My books?”
“Yes.”
She considered that, then pressed a red crayon into my palm. “You hold.”
I folded it into the napkin with the rest, careful not to snap its point. Her small trust didn’t make me feel braver. It made me understand what bravery had to be for.
I called the motel desk to ask about keeping the room another night, then checked the balance in my account. The numbers didn’t solve anything, but they gave me something solid to work with. I set aside enough for the room and food before opening the rideshare app. If I drove myself, the car seat would come with us; if I took a car, the stroller would have to do.
The stroller.
Dad had placed it outside the apartment door with the same care he used to set down a grocery bag. I pushed the memory away—not because it hurt less, but because it couldn’t make this choice for me.
I booked a car for ten-thirty and gathered Gemma’s things into one bag. Then I called Mom back.
She answered on the first ring.
“I’ll be there at eleven,” I said. “If the paper is there, I’m reading all of it. And I’m not meeting with you alone.”
A beat passed. I could hear a cupboard close on her end, then the low murmur of a television.
“You think you need a witness now?”
“I think I need to understand what you’re asking me to sign.”
“No one is asking you to do anything.”
“You said you had a paper for me.”
“I said it would protect the apartment.”
“You still haven’t told me how.”
“Because you don’t listen when I explain. You just build your case.”
I looked at the bag by the door. Gemma had tucked the purple menu inside beside her spare sweater.
“I’ll come for her things,” I said. “I’ll read the paper. That’s all I can promise.”
May you like
Mom’s voice softened, but the softness had edges.
“If you bring anyone, Paige, the family will know you chose strangers over us.”
