My phone buzzes—Birthday party for Maree at 3 p.m. Today is her 10th birthday—just as the door opens and a little girl walks in. Mom winks at me, then touches the little girl on the head, says, “Happy birthday, Maree,” and leaves.

“Bye, Ms. Alice.” Maree stands awkwardly in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped around her stomach like she feels sick.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” I say.

“Yeah.” Her eyes trail around the apartment, seem to take in the shiny streamers fluttering from the ceiling. “Did you do this all for me?”

“Of course.”

“That’s so nice.” I think her voice breaks, but she’s turned away from me to stand by the table, stares at the cake and presents. I pick up a wrapped gift, hand it to her. “Happy birthday, Maree. I hope you like it.” She makes no move to open it. “Go ahead, open it.”

She does, stops halfway, looks up at me. “Do you remember what it is?”

I shake my head. “Nope, but I’m excited to see what I got.”

This gets a small smile out of her, and she tears off the rest of the paper, lifts out a pair of cat-eye glasses that don’t look like the prescription kind, more like dress-up. I clap my hands, delighted to see that she wears a similar pair that have been broken at some point and taped back together. “To replace your broken ones!” I say. “And it looks like the new ones might fit your face better. They’re a bit smaller.”

“Oh, that’s so nice, Ms. Claire.” Her voice cracks on my name. “You’re so nice. I love them. Thank you.” She throws her arms around my neck and hugs me tight.

“You’re welcome,” I say into her hair.

She takes off the old ones, but when she slides the new pair on, I pull back, hand to chest. Tears spill down her face. Her bottom lip trembles. A deep sadness comes off her in waves, and I can’t connect the dots, can’t figure out why, and my mind scrambles to find an answer.

“What’s wrong, Maree?”

“I asked Leonora to help me find my mom.” Her voice is raw, face wet. “So Leonora searched on the internet ’cause she’s always on the computer and knows how to do stuff.”

I’m writing and writing, wanting to listen but needing to make sure I get it down because I have to tell someone; I can’t be the only one with this information.

She pulls the sleeve of her shirt over her hand, wipes it across her eyes. “And she’s not a hero. She’s in jail and she does bad things for drugs, and she could call me ’cause I could love her even if she is bad, but she never, ever has.”