My mother stood before the judge with both hands pressed against the table.

In September, I started fifth grade.

On the first morning, Dad made breakfast while Mom called to wish me luck. I put her on speaker so she could hear Dad reminding me that my lunch was still on the counter.

“I would’ve forgotten it,” I said.

“We know,” they answered together.

I laughed all the way to the car.

School felt steadier that year. Maya was in my class again. Ms. Parker had moved to another grade, but my new teacher, Mr. Lewis, liked the ceramic house I brought in for a project about where we belonged.

I told the class I had two homes. Nobody made it into a problem.

One afternoon, Mr. Lewis sent home a form for a weekend field trip. It needed a parent’s signature and information about pickup.

I left it on Mom’s kitchen table. She called Dad, filled in the parts they had agreed on, and put it back in my bag.

When I got to Dad’s, it was already done.

I stood in the hallway holding the form.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing. I just didn’t have to remind anybody.”

He understood why that mattered.

The next court review was set for October. I was less afraid this time, though I still wanted to know what would happen. Ms. Reed met with all of us again.

She asked me how I felt about the schedule.

“I like it,” I said. “I want to keep Wednesday dinner with Mom.”

Mom smiled.

Ms. Reed asked if there was anything I wanted to change.

“Sometimes I want to call the other house before bed, even if I called earlier.”

“You can,” Dad said.

“You already can,” Mom added.

“I know. I want it written down so nobody thinks I’m asking because I’m unhappy.”

They both looked surprised.

Dad leaned toward me. “You never need a reason to call Mom.”

“And you can call Dad from my house,” Mom said.

Ms. Reed made a note anyway. She said it was important that the plan felt clear to me.

At the hearing, the judge kept the schedule. This time, when Mom heard the decision, she reached across the space between our chairs and squeezed my hand.

No one asked me to say the hard words again. The judge told Mom and Dad they had done good work helping me settle.

Outside the courtroom, Mom took a breath.

“I hated this building for a long time,” she said.

“So did I,” I answered.

Dad held the door for us.

“Can we get lunch before we go back to work and school?” I asked.

They both checked their phones. Dad had an hour. Mom could make it if we chose the café nearby.

We sat at a small table and shared fries. Mom asked about my field trip. Dad asked whether I had packed the jacket Aunt Renee bought me. I told them I had.

I didn’t spend the meal watching their faces. I ate while the fries were hot.

The next month, Grandma became ill with pneumonia. Mom spent several evenings at the hospital. On her Wednesday, she called to say she couldn’t pick me up.

I heard the strain in her voice.

“I can come see Grandma with Dad,” I said.

“Only if you want to. She’s resting.”

“I want to.”

Dad drove me. Grandma was tired but awake. I showed her the last page in our gardening notebook. I had drawn the final tomatoes before the cold weather came.

“You made them too round,” she whispered.

“You always say that.”

“Because you always do it.”

I held her hand until a nurse came in. Mom stood beside Dad near the door. She looked exhausted.

“Do you want me to go home with Dad?” I asked.

“Yes, sweetheart. I’ll call you tonight.”

She did. Grandma improved slowly. During those weeks, Dad took me to Mom’s house when she needed clean clothes or a meal. Mom thanked him. He told her when I had a test and when the field trip bus would return.

They weren’t married anymore. They still helped each other be my parents.

When Grandma came home, she invited all of us for dinner. She had not cooked it herself; Aunt Renee and Priya had brought most of the food. Grandma claimed credit for choosing the menu.

We ate at the same table. Afterward, I helped her add a new page to our notebook: a drawing of the garden resting through winter.

“Next year,” she said, “we’ll plant more.”