Chapter Text
It had never occurred to Andy that, at fortythree, she would find herself in a situation like this.
Not because there was anything wrong with the café. If anything, it was one of the few places left where she could still walk in without being recognized, without phones pointed at her, without interviews.
She was fortythree, with a career most people would describe as "stable", usually with a hint of envy and the slightest hesitation and a reputation that fluctuated somewhere between accomplished journalist and the one who says things a little too plainly. It depended on who was telling the story.
She had been a journalist long enough to stop counting all the different versions of herself she'd had to become: the intern sprinting through Manhattan in heels that were far too high, the assistant who memorized the names of designers no one could pronounce, the young woman who learned far too quickly how easy it was to lose herself in the streets of New York, the war correspondent convinced that a camera would somehow protect her from landmines and armed men.
Spoiler: it didn't.
Then there was the version she'd chosen to remain after years spent in war zones, far from home.
The one who still wrote for a major newspaper, but from a different place now. Farther from the center of the noise. The one who could afford to turn down last minute assignments and enjoy mornings like this, when she could stop by her friend Jessie's café.
Jessie's café was one of the few exceptions to the carefully constructed life Andy had built for herself. It was small, with mismatched mugs and a counter that was always just a little too crowded, where nobody asked what she was writing or why she wasn't on television as often anymore.
That was why she came.
That, and because her friend had the infuriating habit of never asking questions while somehow understanding everything anyway.
Andy sat in her usual spot, a cup of coffee gone cold between her hands, staring absently through the front window. Rain came and went in light showers, and the city moved with the kind of distracted slowness she enjoyed watching without having to be part of it.
Inside, the café was quiet. Almost too quiet.
"They're still there?" Andy asked without taking her eyes off the window.
From behind the counter came the clink of a mug set down a little too hard, followed by a suspicious sound, like someone trying to choke back a laugh.
"Oh, yes," Jessie said. "And they're looking right at you."
Andy let out a quiet sigh, though it wasn't irritation.
More like resigned curiosity. It wasn't the first time.
That was the part that made the whole thing just a little stranger.
The first time she'd noticed them had been five days earlier. She'd rushed out of work between meetings and assumed they were just two children waiting for someone.
Perfectly normal.
The second time she'd spotted them in the park while she was walking with Lily and hers children. The little girl had been sitting unnaturally straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, as though she were trying to imitate an adult she'd only seen once. The little boy, on the other hand, had immediately become flustered the moment their eyes met, dropping the newspaper he was holding a newspaper that was upside down and that he almost certainly struggled to read anyway.
Andy had smiled, convinced it was just a coincidence.
Then they'd been there again the next day.
Same place.
Same way of watching her before she even noticed them.
The girl never looked entirely comfortable in the role she'd assigned herself. Every now and then she'd open her mouth as if she were about to say something, only to close it again immediately, as though she couldn't decide which version of herself she was supposed to be. Fake confidence, poorly constructed.
The boy was the exact opposite: too emotional to stay still, too anxious to be discreet. Every time Andy walked up to a counter somewhere, she'd see him stiffen before whispering something to the girl. She always answered with a quick nod, like she was following instructions she wasn't entirely sure she understood herself.
And today they were there again. This time they'd followed her into the café.
Or rather, Andy had chosen to let them follow her there. She didn't like the idea of two children that young wandering around outside alone. At least inside the café, they were safe.
"I swear this isn't new," Andy said at last, turning toward Jessie. "I've been seeing them all week."
Jessie stopped polishing the same mug for what had to be the third time. "And you're only telling me now?"
"I thought they were... random," Andy said with a shrug. "You know. Kids. Quiet neighborhood. Maybe they're waiting for someone."
Her friend stared at her for a second. "Andy."
"What?"
"They're not waiting for someone. They're waiting for you."
Andy gave her half a smile. "That sentence sounds unnecessarily dramatic."
"I'm not joking." Andy looked back at them. Same table.
The girl's hands were folded together, though this time her fingers were visibly tense. The boy kept leaning toward the door every few seconds, as though expecting something or someone to walk in at any moment.
Then he realized Andy was looking at him.
He froze.
He ducked awkwardly behind his glass of water, which trembled slightly in his hands.
The girl nudged him gently under the table.
"You're not helping," she muttered without really looking at him.
Andy tilted her head. "Okay," she said quietly, more to herself than to Jessie, "this is the part where I start wondering if I'm imagining things."
"Nope. You are definitely seeing them."
"Did they order anything?"
"Just water. I don't think they brought enough money for juice."
"Is that worrying or funny?"
"Both."
Silence settled between them. Andy watched them again.
The boy was whispering something too quickly, too frantically. The girl listened with an expression that tried very hard to look serious, as though she were the responsible one, the one with the plan.
But every so often her eyes wandered around the room, searching for reassurance somewhere outside herself.
It wasn't confidence. It was acting. And not particularly convincing acting.
Andy sighed, finishing the last of her cold coffee in one swallow.
"Okay," she said. "Enough pretending this isn't happening."
"Finally."
"I'm going to talk to them." Jessie raised an eyebrow.
"Want me to call the police first?"
"For two kids?"
"For you, who's about to walk over to the two kids who've been watching you for a week."
Andy grabbed two brownies from the counter before setting five dollars beside the register.
"If they're dangerous," she said, "I'll buy them."
"And if they're not..."
"I'll buy them anyway."
Jessie snorted "Solid life strategy."
"I know."
Andy crossed the café.
The little boy spotted her first.
He stiffened so completely that he looked as though he were about to disappear into his chair. The little girl, on the other hand, tried to hold on to her serious expression, but the nervous twitch of her fingers gave her away.
When Andy stopped in front of their table, no one spoke for a moment. She set the brownies down between them.
"Hi," she said calmly. "First of all, you're both terrible at not drawing attention to yourselves."
The boy let out a tiny squeak and immediately ducked beneath the table again.
"That's not helping," the girl repeated, more to herself than to him.
Andy smiled faintly. "Second... why have you been following me for a week?"
The girl opened her mouth. Closed it again.
The boy peeked out from under the table, only to be met with a nervous glare from her.
"It's not... following," she said at last, with a seriousness that was very obviously rehearsed. "It's... observing."
Andy raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't make the situation any better."
The girl swallowed and for the first time, she genuinely seemed to have no idea what to say next.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
The boy was still half hidden beneath the table, as though that had become his natural habitat. The girl sat perfectly straight too straight with her hands folded neatly on the edge of the table, trying very hard to look composed, she wasn't. Andy could see it.
They were terrified.
Her eyes dropped to the brownies before she gently nudged the plate closer to the middle of the table.
"Okay," she said softly. "Let's call this a peace offering."
The boy popped up instantly, as though she'd just given an internationally recognized signal.
"Brownies?" he asked, already reaching for one.
The girl caught his wrist. "We can't."
"You can," Andy said, placing a hand over her heart with exaggerated sincerity. "I bought them from that counter. You watched me do it. I promise they're not poisoned."
Both children paused. The boy grabbed a brownie immediately.
The girl hesitated. She looked at it as though accepting it required careful strategic consideration.
Then, very slowly, she picked one up as well, as if saying yes carried some enormous responsibility.
Andy pulled out a chair and sat down as though this were just another ordinary table.
"Okay," she said. "Let's start over."
Silence. The boy was already eating like someone who hadn't had a proper meal in days.
The girl still hadn't taken a bite.
"What are your names?" Andy asked.
The boy looked up immediately.
"Roark."
The girl shot him a horrified look. "You weren't supposed to say"
"It's just our names," he muttered.
Andy smiled. "Roark. Okay." Then she turned to the girl.
She hesitated "Bronwyn," she said finally, as though it had been an unusually difficult decision.
"Bronwyn and Roark," Andy repeated. "Much better than 'the mysterious children who've been staring at me all week.'"
Roark made a small sound that could have been either a laugh or a swallowed hiccup.
Bronwyn didn't react, but her shoulders relaxed by perhaps a single millimeter.
"How old are you?" Andy asked. "You both seem a little young to be out here by yourselves."
"I'm not little!" Roark protested. "I'm eight! And Winny is eleven!"
"RO!"
Andy laughed. "Okay, okay. My mistake. You're obviously very grown up." She raised both hands in surrender.
"So," she continued, leaning her elbows on the table, "do you want to tell me why you've been spending your days following me around?"
Roark looked up immediately "Because you're you."
Andy blinked. "That's not an answer."
"It is an answer," Bronwyn cut in.
Then she corrected herself, speaking more carefully. "It's just... complicated."
Andy nodded as though that were the most reasonable thing anyone had ever said. "All right. I can work with complicated."
Roark finished his brownie in two bites.
Then, as though he'd suddenly remembered something of life-changing importance, he leaned across the table.
"Can we have some juice too?"
"Roark!" Bronwyn exclaimed. "You can't ask for things!"
Andy looked from one child to the other.
Then she stood up without a word.
"What kind of juice?"
Roark stared at her as though he wasn't entirely convinced he'd heard correctly. "Orange," he said at last.
Bronwyn looked at him as though he'd just committed a felony.
"You weren't supposed to"
"Orange juice it is," Andy said, already heading toward the counter.
Jessie watched her pull two juice boxes from the refrigerator.
"Are you seriously buying drinks for the mysterious children who've been stalking you?"
"At least they'll stop looking like they're about to faint," Andy replied.
She returned to the table and placed a juice box in front of each of them. Roark grabbed his instantly.
Bronwyn stared at hers for another second before accepting it with cautious hands.
Andy sat back down. "Okay," she said calmly.
"Here's how this works. You tell me what you're doing... and I'll let you keep the juice." Roark froze.
Bronwyn closed her eyes for a brief second, as though those words had changed everything.
Then she spoke. "We have to save our mom."
Andy didn't move. "Okay," she said slowly. "That's a sentence that needs... a lot more information."
She paused "Is your mom in danger?" Roark nodded vigorously.
Bronwyn lowered her gaze to the juice box, as though it had suddenly become too heavy to hold.
And for the first time, her voice no longer sounded rehearsed.
It just sounded... Tired. "No. But she's sad."
Andy let a few seconds pass. Not because she didn't know what to say.
She had learned long ago that when a child said something like that, silence was often more helpful than another question.
"You want to make her happy."
It wasn't a question. Bronwyn nodded.
"She says she's fine." Her fingers kept turning the little juice box over and over.
Roark made a face. "But we know when she's pretending."
Andy tilted her head slightly.
"You do?"
"Of course." This time Bronwyn answered without hesitation.
"When she's really happy, she smiles like this."
She demonstrated what was, to Andy's eyes, not a smile, but apparently qualified as one in the children's world.
"And when she's sad..." Bronwyn continued quietly, "...she makes this fake smile because she thinks we won't notice." Andy lowered her eyes to the table.
There was something profoundly unfair about an eleven year old becoming so skilled at telling the difference between a genuine smile and one carefully put together for someone else's sake.
"So," Andy said softly, "you decided to follow me."
Roark nodded enthusiastically. "Because you're important to Mom."
Bronwyn shot him a look that somehow managed to combine exasperation and resignation.
"Ro..."
"We have to tell her eventually."
Andy let the remark pass without reacting.
There would be time for that.
First, there was a far more urgent question.
"Can I ask you something?"
Both children nodded.
"Do your parents know you're here?"
For the first time since the conversation had begun, they both avoided her eyes.
It was only the smallest movement.
Bronwyn suddenly became fascinated by the straw on her juice box, twisting it between her fingers. Roark started picking at the corner of a paper napkin with one fingernail.
"Mom doesn't," Bronwyn admitted at last.
"Why not?"
"She's in Italy."
Andy frowned slightly.
"On vacation?"
"No." Bronwyn shook her head.
"She's working."
"We've got two more weeks," Roark added. "She comes back next Friday."
"And your dad?"
"He's at home."
The answer came so naturally that Andy found herself choosing her next question with extreme care.
"So... does he know you come out?"
Roark shook his head, almost surprised that that was the issue. "No."
Bronwyn gave him the weary look of someone who had learned far too early that it was her job to correct her younger brother.
"We didn't tell him," she explained. "We've snuck out every time."
Andy went very still. "And... he hasn't noticed?"
"No." Roark said it with the same simplicity someone might use to say it was raining outside. "Dad hardly ever checks."
Andy felt her stomach tighten.
"I'm sorry... what exactly does 'hardly ever checks' mean?"
"He thinks we're in our room."
"Or watching TV," Bronwyn added. "Or out in the backyard."
"It depends."
"And he doesn't come to see?"
Both children shook their heads. Andy took a slow breath.
Over the years, she'd learned to recognize the exact moment when a conversation stopped being merely strange and started becoming genuinely concerning. She was crossing that line now.
"Does this happen often?"
Bronwyn hesitated. "Fairly often."
"How often is fairly often?"
The girl lowered her eyes. "When we're staying with him and Mom has to travel for work." The silence that followed no longer felt light.
Andy studied their faces. They didn't look frightened.
That was what unsettled her most.
They looked accustomed to it.
"Your father..." she began carefully. "...does he treat you well?"
Roark nodded immediately "Yeah."
The answer came so quickly it sounded almost automatic.
Then he reconsidered. "I mean..."
He looked down. "He's nice to us."
Bronwyn closed her eyes briefly.
As though she'd hoped that question would never come.
"It's different with Mom." Andy said nothing.
She let the silence ask the next question for her.
Roark stared at the crumbs of his brownie. "He yells at her."
Another pause. "He says everything is her fault."
"Her fault for what?"
The boy shrugged. "Everything."
Bronwyn spoke without lifting her eyes.
"When he used to come home from work, he'd always find something she'd done wrong. Now that they're divorced, he does it less... mostly because he sees her less." The words came slowly, one by one, as though she were selecting each with great care.
"If she worked too much."
"If she didn't work enough."
"If she was tired."
"If she wasn't." She paused. "No matter what she does..."
"...he always finds a reason to tell her she did it wrong."
Roark looked at his sister.
"But he's nice to us." Bronwyn nodded. "When he remembers we're there."
Andy felt her breath catch for a moment. It wasn't the worst sentence spoken during that conversation.
It was, perhaps, the saddest.
She let another few moments pass before speaking.
Not the awkward silence of someone who didn't know what to say, but the measured silence of someone who had learned, after a lifetime of asking questions, that often the best thing to do was simply wait until people found the courage to keep talking on their own.
She rested her forearms on the table and looked from Bronwyn to Roark.
"All right," she said at last, her voice deliberately gentle. "Let's set aside the mission, your mom being sad, and the fact that you decided to stalk a complete stranger for an entire week."
And your father's incompetence. But she kept that thought to herself.
Roark lowered his head with a guilty expression.
Bronwyn, at least, had the decency to look a little embarrassed.
"I want to understand one very simple thing."
She gestured lightly toward herself "What do you want from me?"
The question lingered between them.
For a moment, Andy was almost certain the answer would be something perfectly ordinary.An autograph, perhaps.
A signed photograph for their mother. Maybe even a short birthday video, people had asked her for things like that before, especially after some of her more widely read reports.
It would have been almost reassuring.
Bronwyn took a slow breath. "We want you to make Mom happy."
Andy smiled patiently. "I understand."
"No." The girl shook her head. "I mean really."
Andy waited. Bronwyn continued looking at her as though she were the one failing to grasp something obvious.
"She reads every article you write."
"Really?" That genuinely caught Andy by surprise.
"Every single one," Roark confirmed enthusiastically.
"Even the really long ones. One time she read one that was twentysix pages."
"Ro, it was twelve."
"That's still way too many. I fell asleep on page five."
Andy couldn't help smiling. "I'm sorry for the trauma."
"It's not your fault," the boy replied with complete seriousness.
"It's just that Mom even reads the notes at the end." Andy laughed quietly.
"She's a very thorough reader."
"She says you're a great writer."
"She says you tell people's stories the way they really are"
"She says you're never afraid to ask the right questions."
Each sentence felt like another brushstroke in a portrait their mother had apparently been painting for years.
Andy lowered her eyes to the table for a moment.
Hearing her own work described through the eyes of two children was unexpectedly moving. "That's very kind of her."
"We know," Bronwyn said. "And it's strange. Mom isn't nice to anyone except us." Andy nodded.
"So... I'm guessing you want a favor."
They both looked at her expectantly.
"I can sign a book for her, if she has one."
Silence.
"Or a photograph."
Silence.
"I could even record a video message if you think she'd like that."
Roark slowly turned toward his sister with an expression of profound concern.
"I don't think she gets it."
Bronwyn looked equally concern. "No," she admitted. "I don't think she does."
Andy watched them exchange the look of two doctors faced with a patient who wasn't responding to treatment.
"What exactly am I not getting?"
Roark let out the dramatic sigh only an eight year old could manage.
"We don't want an autograph."
"Oh."
"Or a picture."
"I see."
"We want you to become our mom's girlfriend."
For one long moment, Andy had the distinct impression that someone had turned the volume down on the entire world.
The murmur of the café drifted into the distance. The hiss of the espresso machine seemed to stop.
Even Jessie, behind the counter, froze in place with a dish towel in one hand, wearing the expression of someone who had just heard a story they'd be telling for the rest of their life.
Andy remained perfectly still. She could have sworn she'd misunderstood.
"I'm sorry..." she said slowly. "Could you repeat that?"
"Our mom's girlfriend."
"So then, if you like each other..."
"...you can get married."
"Ro..." Bronwyn scolded. "You're not supposed to mention the marriage part right away."
"Why not?" he asked. "That's the next step anyway."
Andy kept staring at them, unable to form a coherent thought.
In her life, she'd received absurd job offers, death threats, love confessions from complete strangers, and once, after a reporting trip, an Afghan village had even given her a goat as a gift (The goat is fine, she lives on a farm and the man who takes care of her periodically sends her photos)
This, however, was an absolute first.
"So..." she began cautiously. "You followed a woman you've never met... to convince her to date your mother?"
"Yes."
They answered in perfect unison, with such complete sincerity that it somehow made the situation even more absurd.
Andy leaned back in her chair and rubbed a hand over her face.
"Can I ask..." she said. "How did you even come up with something like this?"
This time Bronwyn hesitated.
She lowered her gaze to the table, then to the backpack resting beside her feet.
When she spoke again, her voice was much quieter. "We found a diary."
Andy raised an eyebrow. "Your mother's?"
The girl nodded.
"It was hidden in a box. In the attic."
"With a bunch of fashion magazines," Roark added "And photographs."
"And letters."
A faint sense of unease settled in Andy's stomach.
"You shouldn't have read it," she said gently. "Diaries are private."
"We know."
Bronwyn didn't try to justify herself. "We're sorry."
"But..." Roark picked up the sentence. "...once we'd opened it...we started reading."
"Only a few pages," Bronwyn hurried to clarify. "The ones where she talked about you."
Andy fell silent. "She talked about me?"
"A lot."
"She said you were the bravest person she'd ever met."
"And that you were much kinder than you'd thought," Roark added.
"And then she wrote that she was in love with you..."
Bronwyn swallowed. "...but she never had the courage to tell you."
Andy felt the air leave her lungs. For several long seconds, she couldn't think of a single thing to say.
The sentence was too big.
"So we're telling you instead!" Roark announced proudly.
"No..." Andy whispered at last, almost more to herself than to the children. "It can't possibly be that simple."
"It's not simple," Bronwyn replied with a maturity that made Andy forget, for a moment, that she was only eleven.
"That's why we made a plan."
"A plan?"
Roark's entire face lit up "With evidence!"
"Evidence?"
"To prove you'd make an excellent second mom."
He smiled as though the logic were completely self-evident.
"Because if you date Mom, you'll have to look after us too."
Andy slowly closed her eyes then she opened them again.
She decided not to acknowledge that sentence at all. She would simply pretend it hadn't happened.
"I'm afraid to ask what you mean by 'evidence.'"
Roark immediately bent down toward his backpack.
"Hang on. We'll show you."
And Andy realized that these two children had not improvised any of this. They had prepared everything.
Roark ducked beneath the table with the excitement of someone who had been waiting days for this exact moment.
"Found it!"
He pulled out a backpack that looked far too large for someone his size, dragged it onto the table, and began rummaging through it with complete concentration.
Andy watched him with growing apprehension.
She had the distinct feeling that whatever emerged from that backpack was about to complicate her day beyond repair.
"Ro, be careful," Bronwyn warned. "They'll get wrinkled."
"I know."
"Last time you folded all of them."
"That was an emergency."
"It wasn't an emergency."
"I was hungry."
Andy found herself watching this sibling argument with exactly the same expression she'd worn years ago while standing beside Miranda Priestly as two designers debated the precise shade of a belt.
Finally, Roark pulled out a transparent folder.
Inside were neatly arranged papers, printed photographs, newspaper clippings, and an alarming number of brightly colored sticky notes.
He placed it in front of Andy with all the pride of a lawyer presenting the decisive piece of evidence in court.
Written across the cover in thick blue marker were the words:
Operation: Make Mom Happy
Underneath, in different handwriting:
Phase Two: Convince Andrea
Andy closed her eyes. Just for a second.
When she opened them again, the folder was still there.
"You..." she said slowly. "You actually made a dossier."
"Three copies," Bronwyn corrected.
Andy blinked. "Three?"
"One for us."
"One backup."
"And this one." Roark pushed the folder toward her. "For you."
Andy stared at it in silence.
"Go to page four."
"Why page four?"
"Because the first three pages are the table of contents." Of course they were.
Andy opened the folder.
There really was a table of contents.
Complete with page numbers:
- Why Mom Is Sad
- People Who Could Help Her
- Selection Criteria
- Why Andrea Sachs Is the Best Candidate
Andy heard Jessie cough conspicuously behind the counter.
She didn't even need to turn around to know her friend was listening to every word and laughing silently at her expense.
"You have made..." Andy looked up "...a selection?"
"Of course," Bronwyn answered, sounding almost surprised by the question. "Otherwise it wouldn't have been a very good project."
For reasons she couldn't explain, Andy suddenly felt judged.
Bronwyn opened the folder to the appropriate page.
"We gave everyone a score."
"A score."
"From one to ten."
"Based on what?"
Bronwyn began reading with complete seriousness.
"Kindness. Courage. Likelihood of making Mom smile. Ability to deal with difficult people."
Andy interrupted her "Hold on. The last category is...?"
"Very important. Because Mom gets... complicated when she's sad." Roark nodded vigorously. "She either gets really quiet..."
"...or really sarcastic."
"And when she's quiet, it means she's thinking too much."
"And when she's sarcastic, it's because she's scared."
Bronwyn turned another page. "You got an eight."
"Only an eight?" The words escaped Andy before she could stop them.
Both children stared at her in genuine shock.
"Eight is really high."
"Nobody got a ten."
"Because ten means perfection," Roark explained. "And perfection doesn't exist."
He paused thoughtfully. "Except for me and Winny."
Andy simply stared at him. "...Who taught you that?"
"Mom." Of course.
"Can I ask why I lost the other two points?" She immediately wondered why she was suddenly so invested in this bizarre scoring system.
Bronwyn looked down at the page. "Because you work too much."
Andy burst out laughing. "Touché."
Roark frowned. "What's touché?"
"It means..." Andy smiled. "...you're right."
He grinned with obvious satisfaction. "I knew it."
Andy slowly closed the folder.
"Listen to me." This time her voice was softer. "I'm genuinely impressed by how much work you've put into all this."
A slightly alarming amount of work. "But relationships don't work like this."
The two children tilted their heads in perfect synchronization.
"Like what?"
"Like..." Andy gestured vaguely toward the dossier. "...a selection process."
"Why not?"
"Because people don't fall in love after reading a dossier."
She paused. "And besides... you don't even know whether I like women."
"Do you?" Roark asked immediately.
Andy blinked. "...Yes, but"
"See?" he said triumphantly "That means you're perfect for Mom."
"Roark," Andy said, trying not to laugh "That's not how relationships work."
"Then how do they work?"
The question came so simply that Andy found herself thinking for several seconds. It was remarkable how difficult it was to explain something she'd always taken for granted.
"Usually..." she began slowly. "...people meet."
Roark immediately grabbed a pencil.
Andy stared at him. "...Are you taking notes?"
"Otherwise I'll forget."
Without a word, Bronwyn opened to a blank page and copied her brother.
At the top of the page, she carefully wrote:
How Relationships Work
Andy rubbed her forehead. "I don't think"
"Go ahead." The girl was already poised to write.
Andy sighed. "All right. Usually, two people get to know each other first. I'd need to know who she is."
Bronwyn wrote:
- Get to know each other.
"You already know who she is," Roark protested. "She's our mom!"
His sister nodded in agreement.
"Yes, but I'd need to know who she is as a person, not just as your mother."
"Oh."
Bronwyn thought about it. "Well... she's important! And she's a boss."
She looked up hopefully. "Better?"
Andrea sighed. "More or less."
"And then what do you have to do?"
"Then... maybe the two people go out together."
Bronwyn wrote:
- Go out together.
"For coffee."
Roark raised his hand. "Mom can only drink tea, the doctor said she drinks too much coffee"
"All right. Tea." Bronwyn carefully crossed out coffee and replaced it with tea.
"Or..." Andy hesitated. "...dinner."
Bronwyn kept writing.
"And maybe..." Andy continued, "...you bring flowers. Or a letter. You have to court someone."
She paused. "And I really shouldn't be explaining this to the two of you."
Roark immediately looked up. "We'll get the flowers."
"How?"
"From the park."
"Daisies?" Andy suggested.
The children looked genuinely horrified.
"Those aren't flowers, Andrea!"
"They're weeds!"
Andy had the distinct feeling that this, too, was one of their mother's deeply held opinions.
"We'll get tulips," Roark decided. "Or roses from the flowerbeds," Bronwyn added.
Andy froze. "No."
"Why?"
"Because you don't pick flowers from public parks."
Roark looked sincerely disappointed. "Oh."
Bronwyn carefully crossed out another line.
"Then we'll buy them."
"With what money, Ro?"
The two children looked at each other. It was immediately obvious that this variable had never entered their calculations.
"Andy could buy them," Roark suggested after a few seconds.
"Yeah." His sister nodded.
"That makes more sense."
Andy laughed, shaking her head.
"That's not the problem."
"What's the problem?"
"The problem is that I'd have to ask your mother whether she'd even want to go out with me."
The children exchanged another thoughtful look.
Bronwyn added a third item to her list.
- Ask Mom.
"So we know when she's free," she murmured to herself.
"We could check her planner."
Andy's eyes widened.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because that would be... an invasion of her privacy."
Bronwyn thought about it. "You're right."
Andy let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Meanwhile, Roark had already found another solution.
"We could look at the calendar on the refrigerator."
"Roark..."
"What?"
"That one's not private," Bronwyn pointed out in his defense.
"Exactly."
Andy dropped her face into her hands. She could hear Jessie laughing silently behind the counter. "You're organizing a date...using an operational plan."
"Yes."
"With notes."
"Yes."
"And a dossier."
Bronwyn nodded. "So far, it was going really well."
Andy slowly lifted her head and looked at both of them.
They were completely sincere.
To them, none of this was ridiculous.
It was simply the most efficient way to put their mother's heart back together. And somehow, more than anything else they'd said, that made it almost impossible for Andy to keep saying no.
She sat there for several seconds with the folder still open in front of her. Slowly, she closed it, running one hand over the cover as though that simple gesture might help organize the chaos in her thoughts.
It didn't.
Because beneath all the absurdity, there was still something that refused to leave her alone. Something that had quietly worked its way into her mind.
Did she know this woman?
Well enough for her to have filled pages of a diary.
Well enough that, in her children's eyes, she was the most obvious answer to their mother's sadness.
Andy realized she was mentally listing every woman she'd ever met.
There had been far too many.
And yet a stubborn feeling kept insisting that she already knew the answer.
She was only missing the name. She looked back at them.
"What's your mother's name?"
The reaction was immediate. Roark's eyes went wide.
Bronwyn instinctively pressed her lips together.
"No."
Andy blinked. "No?"
"We can't tell you."
"Why?"
Bronwyn looked genuinely surprised that the question even needed asking. "Because then you'd look for her."
"Bronwyn..." Andy smiled despite herself. "That's exactly what I'd want to do."
The girl shook her head.
"No. You'd cheat."
"I'd... cheat?"
"If you know who she is, you'll go straight to her."
Andy stared at her. "Yes."
"Then you'd skip all the preparation."
"Preparation?"
"The preparation that starts tomorrow."
Andy was beginning to develop the faintest headache.
"Wait a second." She leaned forward. "We haven't agreed to anything."
"Yes, we have."
"No."
"Yes."
"Bronwyn."
"Andrea."
For several seconds they simply stared at one another.
Andy recognized that expression immediately.
She'd seen it hundreds of times. On politicians who had no intention of answering a question. On diplomats absolutely convinced they controlled the conversation.
The only difference was that, this time, the expression belonged to an eleven year old girl.
"All right," Andy said at last, changing tactics. "Then let's do this instead."
She pointed at the two of them. "You are both going home."
Then she reached into her bag and pulled out her phone.
"Or I call the police."
Roark nearly choked on the last sip of his juice.
"The police?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because there are two children, aged eight and eleven, sneaking out of the house, following a complete stranger for an entire week, and their father hasn't even noticed."
Bronwyn didn't move. She didn't look frightened.
If anything, she calmly picked up a pen and added another bullet point to the dossier.
Andrea frowned. "...What are you doing?"
"I'm adding that you're decisive."
Bronwyn spoke as though this were perfectly reasonable.
"Mom likes decisive people." She closed the folder with quiet satisfaction.
"Even though she'll still be the one who wins the conversation."
Andy stared at her. "...Did you hear me? I said I could report the fact that you've been sneaking out."
She looked... thoughtful. As though she were considering her next move in a chess match.
Then she nodded slowly. "All right."
Andy paused. That was not the answer she'd been expecting.
"All right?"
"Yes."
The little girl sat up straighter in her chair. "I'll tell them you kidnapped us." A silence so complete followed that even Jessie stopped drying glasses. Andy stared at her.
"...Excuse me?"
"I'll say you convinced us to come with you."
"Bronwyn."
"I'll tell them you bought us food."
She pointed at the brownie that had long since disappeared.
"And something to drink." Then she pointed at the empty juice box.
"And that you brought us here."
Andy opened her mouth.
"This..." she said slowly. "...is absolutely not what happened."
"I know." Bronwyn paused. "You know."
Another pause. "But the police won't know that at first."
Andy stared at her in disbelief.
Roark timidly raised a hand. "I'm not very good at lying."
"I know"
his sister replied without even looking at him "But you can cry."
Andy let her head fall back and stared at the ceiling.
A few seconds later, she burst out laughing.
It was the kind of exhausted laughter that only came when the brain finally gave up trying to make sense of reality.
"You two..." she managed between laughs. "...are tiny little blackmailers."
"No." Bronwyn sounded genuinely offended "It's negotiation."
Jessie coughed loudly to disguise a laugh.
Andy shot her a look. Her friend had the decency to turn around.
"All right," Andy said at last, regaining her composure "Let's hear it."
"What exactly is this plan of yours?"
Bronwyn immediately pulled out her notebook.
"Tomorrow we begin the lessons."
"...Lessons."
"Yes."
She opened to a page that had clearly been prepared in advance.
Across the top, in neat handwriting, was the title:
Accelerated Course: How to Win Mom's Heart
Andy closed her eyes "Of course there's a syllabus."
"With a schedule," Roark confirmed proudly.
"No."
"Yes."
Andy rubbed her temples "And tell me..."
"How exactly do you imagine these... lessons working?"
"Here." Bronwyn pointed at the table "Tomorrow. Same time."
Andy laughed again.
"And how, exactly, would you know whether I'm coming?"
The siblings exchanged a glance. Roark smiled.
For some reason, that smile worried Andy more than anything else he'd said all afternoon.
"You'll come."
"I wouldn't be so sure."
"You will."
"Roark..."
The boy shrugged. "If you don't..."
He looked at his sister, silently asking for permission.
Bronwyn nodded.
"I'll pretend to be sick."
Andy stared at him "I'm sorry... what?"
"I'll say it was the juice."
He pointed very precisely at the now-empty juice box.
"The one you bought me."
Andy was speechless. A long silence followed.
Finally, Andy rested both hands on the table and looked from one child to the other.
"You have a genuinely alarming talent for emotional blackmail."
She paused "And people will figure out you're lying."
Roark smiled, looking pleased with himself.
"Thank you."
"...That wasn't a compliment."
"Oh."
Andy could have sworn she saw Bronwyn smile.
"They'll know we're lying," she said calmly.
"But your reputation as a journalist will still take a hit."