The next day, Mrs. Blake told me I'd be meeting with my social worker after school. "Just a quick check-in," she said as she set a plate of toast in front of me that morning. The butter melted in small pools, and the faint smell of cinnamon drifted up. "Nothing to worry about."

I nodded, but the thought stayed in my mind all day. What would the social worker ask? What would I say? Part of me didn't like the idea of someone poking into my life, even if I knew it was their job to make sure I was okay.

The sky outside the bus window was overcast as we rode to school, gray clouds swirling like brushstrokes. I watched the trees whip by, my stomach doing little flips that had nothing to do with breakfast.

English class kicked off the day with a discussion on metaphors. The teacher, Ms. Callahan, paced at the front of the room, her enthusiasm contagious as she read from a well-worn poetry book. Her voice lifted and fell with the rhythm of the verses, each word painted with passion.

"Who can tell me what the author is trying to say here?" she asked, tapping a line on the whiteboard with her marker. It read, "The heart is a restless bird, longing for the open sky."

I scribbled notes in my notebook, hoping to avoid being called on. The pen felt awkward in my hand, like I was holding it too tight. A girl, seated two rows ahead of me, raised her hand confidently.

"It's a metaphor for freedom," she said, her voice steady. "The bird represents the heart's desire to escape, to break free from its cage."

Ms. Callahan beamed. "Exactly! Beautifully put." She leaned against her desk, clutching the poetry book to her chest. "Metaphors help us say the unsayable. They allow us to give shape to feelings we might not fully understand."

I admired how easily the girl could speak up, something I was still trying to work on. My gaze dropped to my notebook, where I'd doodled a small bird in the margin, its wings half-drawn.

Lunch was the best part of the day. I found Jasmine at our usual spot near the back of the cafeteria, where she was already unpacking her lunch. She waved me over, grinning.

"Hey, Emily!" she said, scooting over to make room. "How's it going?"

"Okay," I said, sitting down and unwrapping my sandwich. The familiar smell of peanut butter and jelly was oddly comforting. "How was math?"

"Ugh, don't even ask," Jasmine groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically. "It's like they expect us to be math geniuses or something."

I laughed softly, shaking my head. Jasmine always had a way of making me smile, even when I didn't feel like it.

As we ate, she started talking about a group project in her history class. "So, get this," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I got stuck with Trevor. Trevor. Can you believe it?"

I winced. Everyone knew Trevor was the worst for group projects—lazy and full of excuses. "That sucks," I said.

"Yeah, tell me about it," she muttered. "He's already trying to pawn all the work off on me. But I told him, no way."

"Good," I said. "Don't let him get away with that."

Jasmine nodded, then glanced at me. "What about you? How's your day going?"

"It's fine," I said quickly, not wanting to get into anything heavy. "Just... normal."

She gave me a look, her dark eyes searching mine like she could tell there was more. But she didn't press, and I was grateful for that.

By the time gym rolled around, I was already dreading the running drills the gym teacher had planned. His booming voice echoed across the gym as he barked instructions. The glossy hardwood floor gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and the faint smell of sweat and rubber sneakers lingered in the air.

Jasmine and I stuck together, jogging side by side as we made our laps around the gym. My legs ached with each step, and my breaths came out in shallow puffs.

"I swear this is torture," Jasmine panted, glancing at me with an exaggerated look of despair. Her ponytail swung behind her as she picked up her pace slightly. "Who even likes running?"

"Not me," I muttered, focusing on keeping pace with her. My lungs felt like they were on fire, but her complaints made me smile, even as I struggled to keep up.

When the drills were finally over, we moved on to a basketball scrimmage. The gym teacher divided us into teams, his whistle slicing through the chatter. Jasmine got pulled into one of the lineups, flashing me a playful grin as she jogged to her position.

"You're missing out!" she called over her shoulder.

I rolled my eyes but smiled back. "Yeah, sure," I muttered under my breath, retreating to the sidelines.

I was content to stay out of the action, happy to watch from a safe distance. Jasmine was quick on her feet, darting past defenders with ease. The way she weaved through the court, ball in hand, made it seem like the game was second nature to her. Her confidence was something I admired — something I wished I could borrow for just a moment.

The echo of sneakers squeaking against the floor and the rhythmic bounce of the basketball filled the gym. Jasmine's laughter rang out as she scored a basket, throwing her arms up in triumph. I clapped for her, feeling a small surge of pride on her behalf.

The final class of the day was science, and I trudged to the classroom, already feeling the weight of the upcoming meeting with my social worker. The room smelled faintly of old textbooks and something chemical, and the teacher was already at the front, scribbling diagrams on the whiteboard.

He launched into a lecture about ecosystems, gesturing at a slide of a rainforest. The words blurred together as my mind drifted. I stared out the window at the gray clouds outside, the steady tapping of raindrops against the glass matching the rhythm of my restless thoughts.

What would the social worker ask? Would she think I was doing okay? What if I said something wrong? My stomach churned, the nervous energy tightening like a knot in my chest. I scribbled a few notes, more out of habit than understanding, the words on the board barely registering.

When the bell finally rang, it felt like a small mercy. I gathered my things quickly, stuffing them into my backpack as the other students filtered out of the room. Jasmine caught up with me in the hallway, her backpack slung over one shoulder.

"You okay?" she asked, her tone softer than usual.

"Yeah," I said quickly, forcing a small smile. "Just tired."

She gave me a look, like she wasn't quite buying it, but didn't press. "See you tomorrow, then?"

"Yeah," I said again, waving as we parted ways. Her footsteps faded behind me as I headed for the office, the nervous energy building with every step.

When I got back to the house, the social worker, Ms. Evans, was waiting. Her light blue sedan, the same one I'd seen on her previous visits, was parked neatly in the driveway. She was standing on the porch, chatting quietly with Mrs. Blake. Even from a distance, I could see her notebook tucked under her arm and the kind but serious expression on her face.

Ms. Evans had short, curly hair that framed her face like a halo, and her warm brown eyes always seemed to hold a depth of understanding. But today, they didn't seem to be smiling as much. I'd met her a few times before, but this visit felt different—heavier. Maybe because it was the first time I'd been somewhere that felt even a little like home, or maybe because I knew the questions she'd ask would cut deeper this time.

"Hi, Emily," she said when I approached, her tone gentle but firm. "How was school?"

"It was okay," I said, shrugging. My stomach twisted into a knot as I forced myself to meet her gaze.

Mrs. Blake gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Why don't you two head inside? I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."

We went to the dining room, where Ms. Evans set her notebook on the table and gestured for me to sit. I eased into a chair, the polished wood cool against my hands as I gripped the edge. She sat across from me, opening her notebook and clicking her pen with a soft snap.

"Emily, I want to start by saying I'm proud of how you've been handling everything," she began. Her voice was calm but carried an undertone of seriousness. "I know things haven't been easy, but today's meeting is just to check in and see how you're really doing. It's important for the court to have an honest picture of how you're adjusting."

I nodded, but my throat felt tight. The air seemed heavier in the room, the ticking of the clock on the wall suddenly loud in my ears.

Ms. Evans leaned forward slightly, her pen poised. "How are you feeling about being here with Mr. and Mrs. Blake? Do you feel safe and comfortable in the home?"

I hesitated, then nodded again. "Yeah. I like them. Mrs. Blake is nice. She makes things... feel normal. Mr. Blake... he works a lot, so I don't see him much, but he is very silly when I do see him."

She smiled faintly. "That's good to hear. Can you tell me a little more about what 'normal' looks like for you here?"

I glanced down at the table, tracing a faint scratch in the wood with my fingertip. "We have routines. Dinner at the same time, chores, bedtime. It's not chaotic like... like it used to be."

Her gaze softened, but she didn't look away. "You mean like it was with your mom?"

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat making it hard to answer. "Yeah. My mom... she wasn't like Mrs. Blake. She... she was angry a lot. And when she was mad, it got bad."

Ms. Evans's expression remained gentle but serious. "Emily, you don't have to talk about anything you're not ready for. But if you ever do, it's okay to share what you're feeling."

I nodded slowly, then took a deep breath. "It's just... she wasn't nice to me most of the time. And I don't think she wanted me to be happy."

Ms. Evans's pen moved across the page, but she looked up at me. "You're very brave for sharing that, Emily. I'm sorry you went through that. You deserved to feel safe and loved."

I nodded again, my throat tight. "I wasn't with her when... when the fire happened. I was here with The Blake's, when I found out from my friend Jasmine.

Her pen stilled, and she leaned forward slightly. "That must have been a very scary and confusing time for you."

I bit my lip. "It was. I didn't know what to feel. Part of me was... relieved. But then I felt bad for feeling that way."

"Emily," Ms. Evans said gently, "you've been through something incredibly difficult. It's okay to have complicated feelings about it. What matters is that you're safe now and that you have people around you who care about you."

I nodded again, my fingers tracing the table's edge. "Mrs. Blake says it's okay to talk about it. But I don't want to make anyone upset."

"Sharing your feelings won't upset the people who care about you," Ms. Evans reassured me. "They want to help you heal. And I'm here to help too, whenever you need."

She paused for a moment, letting the silence settle before speaking again. "Emily, I know it's hard to talk about, but the court needs to know how you're processing everything. Losing your mom was a big change—one no kid should have to go through. How are you feeling about it now?"

The knot in my stomach tightened, and I felt my chest ache as I tried to find the words. "I don't know," I whispered. "Some days I'm fine, and other days... it's like I can't stop thinking about her. About everything."

Ms. Evans nodded, her pen moving quickly across the page. "That's completely normal, Emily. Grief doesn't follow a straight path. It's okay to have those hard days."

I bit my lip, trying to keep my voice steady. "It just feels like... like she's still here, sometimes. Like if I turned around fast enough, I'd see her. And then I remember she's not."

Her expression grew even gentler. "That's a very real part of grieving. It means she's still a big part of you, and that's not something you'll ever lose. But it's also okay to feel angry or sad about it. Have you felt that way?"

I nodded slowly. "Sometimes. I get mad at her for..."

"That's understandable, Emily," Ms. Evans said softly. "You've been through so much, and it's okay to feel all of it. But it's also important to let people in—to let them help you."

"I know," I murmured, looking away. "It's just hard."

She leaned back slightly, giving me a moment to breathe. "What about here with Mrs. Blake? Do you feel like you can talk to her about how you're feeling?"

I nodded. "Yeah. She listens. She doesn't push too much."

"That's good," she said, making another note. "And at school? Are you able to focus? Do you feel like you have support there?"

"School's okay," I said. "It keeps me busy, I guess. And I have a friend, Jasmine. She's... nice."

"Having a friend like that can make a huge difference," Ms. Evans said, her smile returning briefly. "I'm glad you have someone to lean on."

She looked down at her notes for a moment, then back at me. "Emily, is there anything about being here, or about everything you've been through, that feels... unfinished? Anything you're struggling with?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortable. I took a shaky breath. "I just... I don't want to move. I want to stay here."

Her eyes softened further, and she nodded. "I hear you, Emily. That's something the court will take into consideration. Stability is the most important thing for you right now, and we'll do everything we can to make sure you get that."

She closed her notebook and gave me a reassuring look. "You're doing really well, Emily, even if it doesn't always feel like it. You're strong, and you've come so far."

Her words felt like a small weight lifting off my shoulders, even though the ache in my chest still lingered. "Thank you," I said quietly.

Ms. Evans stood, smoothing her notebook against her side. "If you ever need anything, you can always let Mrs. Blake know, and I'll be here. Okay?"

"Okay," I said, managing a small nod.

When Ms. Evans left, I sat in the living room with Mrs. Blake for a while. She didn't ask what we talked about, and I was grateful for that.