The smell of buttery pancakes and warm maple syrup drifted through the house as I made my way into the kitchen, rubbing the lingering sleep from my eyes. The morning light streamed in through the windows, making the whole space feel golden and alive. The soft sizzle of batter meeting the pan mixed with the quiet clatter of forks against plates and the cheerful hum of conversation.

Mrs. Blake stood at the stove, effortlessly flipping pancakes with the kind of practiced ease that only came from years of making breakfast for hungry kids. The scent of cinnamon lingered in the air, and the promise of warmth and comfort wrapped around me like a familiar embrace.

"Morning, Emily," Mrs. Blake said, turning to give me a smile over her shoulder. "Pancakes today. Grab a seat."

I nodded, mumbling a quiet "Morning" as I slid into my usual chair at the kitchen table. Sam was already halfway through his first stack, cutting his pancakes into precise, even squares, while Lily had drowned hers in what looked like half the bottle of syrup.

Lily grinned at me, rocking slightly in her chair. "Mom makes the best pancakes. Don't you think?"

Her excitement was contagious, and despite the knots in my stomach, I found myself smiling—just a little. "Yeah," I said, picking up my fork. "They're great."

Mrs. Blake set a plate down in front of me, the warm scent wafting up invitingly. Her hand rested briefly on my shoulder, a small but reassuring touch. "Eat what you can," she said gently. "We've got a big day ahead."

I nodded, though my appetite was still reluctant to catch up with me. I tore off a small piece with my fork, chewing slowly as the familiar warmth of cinnamon and syrup melted on my tongue. It felt like home—something safe, something steady.

Lily, on the other hand, was already on her second pancake, practically bouncing in her seat. "So, what time do we have to leave?" she asked, her words slightly muffled through a mouthful of food.

Mrs. Blake glanced at the clock above the sink. "We'll head out in about an hour," she said. "That gives everyone enough time to get ready."

Lily nodded enthusiastically before turning back to Sam. "Bet I can finish my stack before you do."

Sam scoffed, barely looking up from his plate. "That's not even a challenge. You eat like a vacuum."

I laughed softly, watching as Lily narrowed her eyes and dramatically stuffed an entire bite into her mouth, giving Sam a smug look as if she had just proven a major point.

Mrs. Blake chuckled as she moved back to the stove. "Let's not turn breakfast into a competition, you two."

I let their chatter fade into the background, focusing on the moment—the warmth of the kitchen, the clinking of plates, the easy way this family fit together. It felt safe. It felt real. And even though my stomach was still tight with nerves about the day ahead, I held onto this moment, letting it remind me that I wasn't alone.

For now, that was enough.

After breakfast, Mrs. Blake ushered us all toward the door, gathering coats, backpacks, and gloves as she moved with her usual steady efficiency. The crisp morning air bit at my cheeks as we stepped outside, our breath curling in soft, white clouds. The world was quiet in that early-morning way, the only sounds the crunch of snow beneath our boots and the distant hum of a car engine warming up down the street.

Sam walked ahead, adjusting the straps of his backpack, while Lily lagged behind, distracted by a set of fresh footprints in the snow. "Look, a bunny was here!" she exclaimed, crouching down to inspect the tiny imprints. "Or maybe a fox! What do you think, Emily?"

I barely registered her words, my mind already weighed down by the day ahead. "Yeah, maybe," I murmured, forcing a small smile.

Mrs. Blake jingled her keys, glancing over at Lily. "Come on, sweetheart, we don't want to be late."

Lily bounded forward, her boots kicking up little flurries of snow as she climbed into the car. I followed, settling into the passenger seat while Sam and Lily buckled in behind me. The heater kicked on, filling the car with warm air, but the tension inside me didn't ease.

The drive to school was filled with the usual bickering between Lily and Sam.

"You definitely cheated at Uno last night," Sam accused, crossing his arms.

"I absolutely did not," Lily shot back. "You just don't know how to strategize."

"It's Uno! There's no strategy, it's just luck!"

"Then why do I always win?"

I stared out the window, barely hearing them. My thoughts were already spinning ahead to the appointment, the nerves settling deeper with each passing minute. The snow-covered streets blurred as we drove, my stomach twisting in knots.

When we finally pulled up to the school, Lily and Sam gathered their things, still caught up in their debate. Mrs. Blake turned in her seat, giving them a pointed look. "Alright, you two. Be good today, and don't forget your homework. I'll see you this afternoon."

"Bye, Mom!" Lily said brightly, hopping out of the car, her earlier argument already forgotten.

Sam muttered a half-hearted "See you later" before following her, his backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder.

As the car door shut behind them, the noise faded, leaving behind a thick, pressing silence. I swallowed, suddenly feeling smaller in the empty space.

Mrs. Blake glanced at me before pulling away from the curb. "How are you feeling?" she asked, her voice soft but steady.

I hesitated, my fingers tightening in my lap. "Okay, I guess," I said, though it wasn't entirely true. My nerves sat like a weight in my stomach, heavy and unmoving. "A little nervous."

"That's normal," she reassured me, her eyes briefly flicking toward me before focusing on the road again. "Just remember, this is a step toward feeling better. You don't have to have all the answers today. You just have to show up. And you're not doing this alone."

I nodded, letting out a slow breath, but the nerves didn't disappear. The road stretched ahead of us, and with it, the unknown. I wasn't sure what to expect, but for now, I clung to Mrs. Blake's words.

I wasn't doing this alone.

The office building was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every small sound feel amplified—the faint clicking of a keyboard at the receptionist's desk, the distant murmur of a phone ringing in another room, the occasional shuffle of papers. The walls were painted in soft, neutral colors, and the lighting was warm but not too bright. It was designed to be calming, I supposed, but it only made me feel more out of place.

As we stepped inside, the receptionist glanced up from her computer and offered a friendly smile. "Good morning. Emily, right?" she asked, her voice gentle.

I nodded, suddenly feeling small.

She handed Mrs. Blake a clipboard stacked with papers. "If you could fill these out, we'll get her checked in."

Mrs. Blake took the clipboard with a nod, leading me toward a row of cushioned chairs near the corner of the waiting room. She sat down, immediately pulling a pen from her bag and getting to work on the paperwork. I hovered awkwardly beside her before sinking into the chair next to her, my fingers twisting together in my lap.

The waiting room was simple—a few seats, a low coffee table stacked with magazines, a quiet, humming air vent in the ceiling. A small fridge sat in the corner, a sign taped to the front reading Complimentary Drinks for Patients.

I hesitated, then pointed toward the fridge. "Can I... grab a soda?" My voice came out quieter than I intended.

Mrs. Blake glanced up from the clipboard and nodded. "Of course, sweetheart. Go ahead."

I pushed myself up and walked over, opening the fridge and letting the cool air wash over me for a moment. Inside, there were water bottles, juice boxes, and a few cans of soda. I grabbed a can of cola and returned to my seat, popping it open with a soft hiss. The carbonation fizzled against my tongue as I took a sip, but my stomach was too knotted to enjoy it.

The minutes stretched painfully. I flipped through one of the magazines on the table, skimming over articles I had no interest in, my eyes barely registering the words. The occasional scratch of Mrs. Blake's pen filled the silence between us.

I drummed my fingers against the side of the soda can, my nerves growing sharper with every passing second. My mind kept circling back to the same thought: What if I don't know what to say? What if I can't say anything at all?

Mrs. Blake finally set the clipboard aside, exhaling softly as she glanced at me. "You doing okay?" she asked, her voice kind but knowing.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "Yeah," I mumbled, though even I didn't believe it.

She reached over and squeezed my hand lightly, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. "The waiting is always the hardest part," she said. "Once you get in there, it won't feel so scary. You don't have to figure everything out today. Just take it one step at a time."

I nodded, but the tight feeling in my chest didn't go away.

Just as I was beginning to convince myself that this was a bad idea—that I wasn't ready for this—the door at the far end of the waiting room opened. A woman stepped out, her expression warm and inviting. She had kind eyes, the kind that didn't pry but made it clear she was listening.

"Emily?" she called, her voice soft but steady.

My heart stuttered. My grip tightened around the soda can for a brief second before I set it down on the table.

Mrs. Blake gave me an encouraging nod. "I'll be right here when you're done," she promised. "You've got this."

I took a deep breath, my legs feeling shaky as I stood up. I wasn't sure if I really had this, but at least I wasn't walking through the door alone.

I followed the woman into the hallway, unsure of what to expect but knowing that this was the first step—one that I wasn't taking by myself.

The office was quiet except for the soft ticking of a clock on the far wall. The room itself was small, but not in an uncomfortable way—everything about it seemed designed to make a person feel at ease. A bookshelf lined one wall, stacked with colorful binders and books with titles I couldn't quite read from where I sat. A small potted plant rested on the windowsill, its leaves catching the slivers of sunlight that seeped in through half-closed blinds. A lamp in the corner cast a warm glow, making the space feel cozy rather than clinical.

I shifted slightly on the couch, my fingers gripping the sleeves of my coat as Dr. Hart settled into the chair across from me. She held a notepad on her knee but hadn't written anything yet. Her curly brown hair was loosely tied back, and her expression was calm, patient—like she had all the time in the world to listen.

"My name is Dr. Hart," she said, her voice smooth and even. "It's really nice to meet you, Emily. I know coming here for the first time can feel a little scary, but I want you to know this is a safe space. Nothing you say here will leave this room unless I believe you're in danger. You're in control of what we talk about, and we'll go at your pace. Does that sound okay?"

I nodded, though my throat felt too tight to form words. My heart was beating too fast, and I wished I had something to do with my hands. I tucked them under my legs instead.

Dr. Hart watched me for a moment before continuing. "Before we dive into anything big, why don't we start with how you're feeling today?"

I hesitated, then shrugged. "I don't know. Tired, I guess."

She nodded like that made perfect sense. "That's understandable. It sounds like you've had a lot on your mind lately."

I let out a slow breath. "Yeah."

She leaned back slightly in her chair, still relaxed but completely focused on me. "Mrs. Blake mentioned you've been having nightmares. Do you want to talk about that?"

I stared down at my lap, rubbing my thumb against the inside of my sleeve. "They're just dreams."

"Even dreams can feel very real," Dr. Hart said gently. "Especially when they connect to things we've been through. Do you remember what happens in them?"

I swallowed hard. I didn't want to talk about it, but at the same time, I wanted someone to understand. "It's always about... her," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "My mom. She's yelling at me, like she used to. And sometimes... sometimes I dream about the fire."

"The fire," Dr. Hart repeated, her tone soft. She didn't ask right away—she let the words settle before continuing. "You dream about being in the fire?"

I nodded, my chest tightening at the thought. "I dream that I'm trapped in it. That I can't get out, no matter how hard I try. And she's there too, telling me it's my fault. That I should've saved her." My voice cracked at the last part.

Dr. Hart was quiet for a moment, as if letting me breathe through what I had just said. Then she leaned forward slightly, her hands resting lightly on her notepad. "Emily, I need you to hear this very clearly," she said, her voice steady but kind. "The fire was not your fault. Nothing about what happened to your mother is your fault."

My throat felt tight. I wanted to believe her. I really did. But the guilt never fully went away. "I don't know," I admitted honestly.

"And that's okay," she said without hesitation. "Believing something—really believing it—takes time. But I want you to know, no matter what your mother may have said to you, no matter what your nightmares tell you, you are not responsible for what happened. You were a child. It was never your job to save her."

Her words made my chest ache in a way I didn't understand. Something inside me loosened, even if just a little. I blinked quickly, trying to push back the sting behind my eyes.

Dr. Hart gave me a moment before shifting the conversation slightly. "Mrs. Blake also mentioned that things at school have been difficult for you. Would you like to talk about that?"

I hesitated. School was easier to talk about, but it didn't mean it hurt any less. "There's this kid, Trevor," I said finally. "He bullies me—calls me names, makes fun of me for being... for who I am."

Dr. Hart nodded, listening intently. "That sounds incredibly hard, Emily. No one deserves to be treated like that. How do you usually handle it when he says those things to you?"

I shrugged. "I try to ignore him, but it's hard."

"That makes sense," she said. "When someone is being cruel, ignoring them can feel impossible. Have there been times when you've stood up to him?"

"Once," I admitted. "I told him he didn't get to decide who I was. He looked surprised, but I don't know if it made a difference. He's suspended right now, but he'll be back."

Dr. Hart tilted her head. "That was a really brave thing to say, Emily."

I shifted in my seat, unsure how to take the compliment. It hadn't felt brave. It had felt desperate.

Dr. Hart tapped her notepad lightly. "Bullying—especially when it's about something personal—can feel like it's chipping away at you. It makes you question yourself, even when deep down, you know who you are. But here's the thing: Trevor only has power over you if you let him. And I don't mean ignoring him—I mean truly believing that his words are meaningless."

I swallowed hard. "But what if they're not meaningless?" I whispered.

She studied me for a moment, then asked, "What's the worst thing Trevor has said to you?"

I hesitated. "That... that I'm a joke. That I don't belong anywhere. That nobody really wants me."

Dr. Hart nodded, as if she had been expecting that answer. "And do you believe him?"

The question caught me off guard. My first instinct was to say no. But if I was being honest, deep down, part of me did. That's why it hurt so much.

"I don't know," I admitted again.

She leaned forward slightly. "Let's look at the facts, then," she said. "You have Jasmine and Mia, who care about you. You have Mrs. Blake, who clearly wants you to feel safe and loved in her home. And from what I understand, Sam and Lily seem to think of you as family. Do you think all of them would keep you in their lives if you weren't wanted?"

I shook my head. "No... but it's different."

"How?" she asked, tilting her head.

I bit my lip. "They don't have to keep me forever."

Dr. Hart's eyes softened, and I suddenly felt exposed. Like she could see straight into the part of me I tried to keep hidden. "That doesn't mean their love for you is temporary," she said gently. "Emily, family isn't always the one we're born into. Sometimes, it's the one we find. And from what I can tell, you've found people who love you very much."

Her words sat heavily in my chest. I didn't know what to say.

She let the silence linger for a moment before glancing at the clock. "We're almost out of time for today," she said. "But I want to give you something to think about. The things Trevor says—they feel real because they poke at the insecurities you already have. But that doesn't make them true. I want you to start paying attention to the people who show you that you matter. Let their voices be louder than his."

I nodded slowly. "Okay."

She smiled, setting her notepad aside. "That's a good start."

As I left the office, stepping back into the waiting room where Mrs. Blake was sitting, I still felt unsure about a lot of things. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as alone as I thought.

When I stepped back into the waiting room, Mrs. Blake was sitting in one of the chairs, a book open in her lap. She looked up as I approached, her smile warm but tinged with curiosity. Her eyes searched my face, not in a probing way, but in that way she had—the way that told me she genuinely wanted to know how I was feeling.

"How did it go?" she asked, closing the book and tucking it into her bag.

I hesitated, my fingers grazing the hem of my sleeves, then shrugged. "It was... okay," I said quietly. "She's nice."

Mrs. Blake nodded, her expression thoughtful, as if she was reading between the lines of my words. "I'm glad to hear that," she said. "It'll take time, but I think this is going to help."

I slid into the chair beside her, letting out a slow breath. I did feel a little lighter—like I had finally put words to things that had been sitting inside me for too long—but I was also exhausted. The session had stirred up a lot, bringing memories to the surface that I usually tried to keep buried. My mind felt foggy, my emotions still tangled, like a knot that had been loosened but not yet undone.

Mrs. Blake must have noticed, because she didn't press me for more. Instead, she let the quiet settle between us, giving me the space to process.

After a moment, she shifted slightly and asked, "So, do you want to go back to school for the rest of the day? Or would you rather head home?"

I frowned, my fingers absently tracing the ridges of my jeans. The thought of school—of Trevor, of the noise, of having to pretend everything was normal—felt overwhelming. Even the idea of sitting in a classroom, surrounded by people but feeling completely alone, made my stomach twist. But at the same time, I didn't want to feel like I was running away. I didn't want to give Trevor the satisfaction of thinking I was too weak to show up.

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, trying to balance what I wanted with what I needed. Finally, I murmured, "Can we go home?"

Mrs. Blake didn't hesitate. "Of course," she said, her voice full of quiet reassurance. "I think that's a good choice."

She stood up and reached for her coat, then paused, glancing at me. Her hand landed gently on my shoulder, squeezing just enough to ground me. "You've done enough for one day, Emily," she said. "Let's take it easy."

I let her words sink in, feeling the warmth of them settle in my chest. For once, it didn't feel like I was failing by taking a step back. It felt like I was allowing myself to breathe.

As we walked toward the exit, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass doors. I still looked like me—same messy hair, same tired eyes—but there was something different, something subtle. Maybe it was just the fact that I had finally spoken my truth to someone. Maybe it was just the knowledge that, for the first time in a long time, I wasn't holding everything inside alone.

Outside, the air was crisp, the sky painted in soft gray clouds. I shoved my hands into my pockets as we made our way to the car, the weight of the morning still pressing down on me, but not as heavily as before.

The car ride home was quiet, but not the awkward kind of quiet. It was the sort of silence that felt peaceful, where neither of us needed to fill the space with words. Outside the window, snow flurries drifted lazily from the sky, swirling and dancing before settling onto the road and trees. The world looked soft, blanketed in white, and for a little while, I let myself get lost in the quiet beauty of it.

The steady hum of the engine was the only real sound, but I could tell Mrs. Blake was waiting for the right moment to speak. She wasn't the type to push, but she always knew how to ease the weight of a heavy day.

"You know," she said eventually, her voice light, "when I was your age, I always wished I could skip school on days like this. Snow made me want to stay inside, curl up with a blanket and a good book."

I turned away from the window, her words pulling me back to the present. A small smile tugged at the corners of my lips. "Yeah. Snow days are nice."

"They really are," she agreed, her hands steady on the steering wheel as we turned down our street. "Maybe we can make this an unofficial snow day. I'll make some hot chocolate, and you can pick a movie, or just relax with a book. Whatever feels right."

The thought of it—warmth, comfort, a quiet afternoon where I didn't have to think too much—made my chest loosen just a little. I nodded, my voice soft but certain. "That sounds nice."

Mrs. Blake pulled into the driveway, turning off the car but letting us sit there for a moment in the stillness. The windshield wipers had left streaks of melted snow across the glass, and I watched as a few flakes drifted down, catching on the edges of the window.

Then she reached over, squeezing my shoulder gently. "We'll take today slow, okay?" she said, her tone full of quiet understanding. "No pressure. Just rest."

I nodded again, taking a deep breath before unbuckling my seatbelt. As we stepped out into the cold, I pulled my coat tighter around me, the crisp air stinging my cheeks. But inside the house, warmth greeted us immediately, wrapping around me like a soft embrace.

Mrs. Blake disappeared into the kitchen while I gravitated toward the couch, sinking into the cushions. The house was calm, the heater humming quietly, filling the space with a comfortable warmth. I stretched out, curling up under the soft throw blanket draped over the armrest, and let myself exhale.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Blake returned with two mugs, the rich scent of cocoa filling the air. She handed me one, the warmth seeping into my hands as I wrapped my fingers around the ceramic.

I took a small sip, the chocolatey sweetness coating my throat, and something about it—about all of this—felt grounding. The weight of the morning hadn't disappeared, but it wasn't crushing me anymore. The psychologist's office, the emotions that had been stirred up, the exhaustion—it was all still there, but somehow, it felt more manageable.

Mrs. Blake sat down beside me, her own mug cradled in her hands. She didn't say anything, didn't try to fill the space with reassurances or advice. She just sat with me, letting the quiet settle, and somehow, that was exactly what I needed.

I glanced at her, then back at the snow falling outside. "Thanks," I murmured, unsure if I was thanking her for the hot chocolate, the company, or just the fact that she always seemed to know what to do when I didn't.

She smiled softly, taking a sip of her drink before replying, "Anytime, sweetheart."

And for the first time all day, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.