The rest of my shift passes in a blur of forced smiles and mechanical tasks. I help a group of third-graders find books about dinosaurs (the irony doesn't escape me), show an elderly patron how to download e-books, and organize next week's story time schedule. My body moves through these familiar motions while my mind replays Richardson's words over and over.

  Municipal jobs are precious in this economy. Budget cuts happen. Programs get eliminated.

  By the time I clock out, my jaw aches from clenching my teeth. I'm so distracted I nearly walk into the automatic doors on my way out.

  The walk home is usually my decompression time - twenty minutes of fresh air and solitude before diving back into family life. Today, though, the familiar route offers no comfort. I check over my shoulder twice, convinced I'm being followed, before telling myself I'm being paranoid. Then again, is it really paranoia when a city councilwoman who can summon a guy who can turn into a T-Rex has threatened your job and, by extension, your family?

  Our row house appears at the end of the block, its newly repaired facade a constant reminder of what we've already survived. The lights are on, which means Ben is home early. As I get closer, I spot his father's ancient Buick parked down the street. Moe is here for Shabbos dinner, as he is most Fridays now.

  What I don't expect to see is the gleaming silver Lexus taking up an impossible amount of space at the curb. I slow my steps, heart sinking. That car can only belong to one person.

  Perfect. Exactly what I need after being threatened by a shapeshifting politician - dinner with my mother.

  I steel myself and climb the steps to our front door. For a moment, I rest my forehead against the cool wood, gathering strength. Then I push it open.

  "-absolutely outrageous prices they're charging now," my mother's voice carries from the kitchen. "Five dollars for a loaf of bread that tastes like cardboard! In my day--

  "The inflation's been rough on everyone," Ben's gentle voice interrupts. "But the local bakeries are still reasonable."

  "Reasonable?" My mother scoffs. "Highway robbery, more like. Now, in Miami--"

  I close the door loudly enough to announce my presence. The conversation in the kitchen stops abruptly.

  "Rachel?" Ben calls out. "You're home early."

  I drop my bag and kick off my shoes, padding toward the kitchen in my sock feet. "Not early. Normal time. You're the early one."

  The kitchen is warm and bright, filled with the rich aroma of Moe's famous (to me) brisket slowly cooking in the oven. Ben is at the counter, sleeves rolled up, kneading dough for challah. Moe sits at the table, a glass of wine already in hand, his eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure at seeing me.

  And then there's my mother.

  Camilla de Leon stands barely five feet tall in her sensible heels, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her green turtleneck spotless despite the floury kitchen. She's perched on a stool like she's afraid it might be dirty, her posture so rigid it makes my back hurt just looking at her.

  "Rachel, darling," she says, her voice warming several degrees. "You look exhausted. Those circles under your eyes - have you tried that cream I sent you?"

  "Hello to you too, Mom," I reply, leaning down to accept her air kiss. "What a surprise."

  "Is it?" She raises an eyebrow. "I told you I was visiting this week."

  "You said maybe next week," I correct her, moving to kiss Moe's cheek. "Hi, Dad."

  "Rachel," Moe beams. "Just in time. Wine?"

  "God, yes." I accept the glass he pours me and take a fortifying sip before addressing Ben. "Did you know my mother was coming today?"

  Ben gives me an apologetic look, flour dusting his forearms. "She called from outside about twenty minutes ago."

  "I was in the neighborhood," my mother explains with a dismissive wave. "That new specialty food store on Frankford Avenue? Overpriced, but they carry those little Israeli cookies you liked as a child."

  Translation: she decided to drop by unannounced and is now pretending it was a planned visit. Typical.

  Ben's eyes catch mine, silently asking if I'm okay. I give him the smallest head shake. Not now. Later.

  "Well, you're all here in time for dinner," I say, trying to sound pleased rather than overwhelmed. "That's... nice."

  "Rachel," my mother says, examining me critically. "Something's wrong. What happened?"

  Despite everything, I almost laugh. For all her faults, my mother has always been able to read me like a large-print children's book. Even when she was largely absent from my life, even when I kept her at arm's length, she could tell when I was upset. It was never a question of awareness - just of priority.

  "Nothing," I lie. "Just a long day at work."

  "Mm-hmm." She doesn't believe me for a second. "And I'm the Queen of England."

  Moe chuckles. "You'd make a fine queen, Camilla. You've got the bearing for it."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  My mother preens slightly at this, but doesn't take her eyes off me. "Spill it, Rachel. What's got you looking like you've seen a ghost?"

  I glance at Ben, who has paused his kneading. He nods slightly - an acknowledgment that I can share as much or as little as I want. He'll back my play, whatever it is.

  I sigh and take another sip of wine. "Maya Richardson came to the library today."

  Ben's hands freeze in the dough. "She what?"

  "Surprise visit," I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "Wanted to see our Summer Reading Program. Apparently, she's very invested in youth literacy these days."

  "Maya Richardson?" my mother repeats. "The city councilwoman? The one who was on Channel 6 last week talking about that ridiculous vigilante bill?"

  I nod, realizing belatedly that my mother has no idea about Richardson's... extracurricular activities, or her personal connection to our family. To her, Richardson is just another politician.

  "What did she want?" Ben asks carefully.

  I look meaningfully at my mother, then back at him. "Oh, you know. To discuss... community outreach. Youth engagement. The usual political photo op."

  Moe, bless him, picks up on the tension immediately. "Camilla, why don't you show me those cookies you mentioned? I'm suddenly craving something sweet."

  My mother frowns. "But Rachel was just--"

  "The cookies, Camilla," Moe says firmly, standing up. "Before dinner. I know, I know, it'll ruin my appetite. But I'm an old man, I've earned the right to eat dessert first."

  She huffs but allows herself to be led from the kitchen. "They're in my purse in the living room. And they're not that special, really. Certainly not worth what I paid--"

  Her voice fades as they move down the hallway, and I collapse into a chair, letting my head fall forward into my hands.

  "Tell me everything," Ben says quietly, wiping his hands on a towel and coming to sit beside me.

  So I do. The surprise visit, the pointed comments about juvenile delinquency, the thinly veiled threats against my job. With each word, Ben's expression darkens, his usual calm demeanor giving way to something harder, angrier.

  "She can't do that," he says when I finish. "Threaten your job because of Sam. That's - that's blackmail."

  "She didn't explicitly threaten anything," I point out. "She's too smart for that. It was all implications and hypotheticals. Budget cuts. Program eliminations." I take another gulp of wine. "Nothing I could prove."

  Ben runs a hand through his hair, leaving a smear of flour that would be funny under other circumstances. "We need to tell Sam."

  "Do we?" I ask, suddenly unsure. "She's got enough to worry about with school and... everything else. This might just make her more reckless."

  "Or it might make her more careful," Ben counters. "She deserves to know what she's up against."

  I groan, dropping my head to the table. "I know, I know. You're right. I just... I wish we could protect her from all this."

  Ben's hand finds mine, warm and solid. "We can't. But we can stand with her."

  I squeeze his fingers, grateful for his steadiness. "You didn't see Richardson's face, Ben. When I called her out - when I asked if she was threatening me - there was this moment where the mask slipped. And what was underneath..." I shudder. "She's not going to stop. Not with this bill, not with Sam. She wants control, and anyone who threatens that is an enemy."

  "So what do we do?" Ben asks, his voice low and serious.

  I sit up straighter, a sudden clarity cutting through my fatigue and fear. "We fight back."

  Ben raises an eyebrow. "What does that mean, exactly?"

  "It means," I say, my voice gaining strength, "that I'm not going to let some power-hungry politician with a god complex threaten my family and get away with it. If she wants to play dirty, she'll find out that librarians aren't the pushovers everyone thinks we are."

  "Rachel--"

  "No, listen," I interrupt, the plan forming as I speak. "That anti-vigilante bill she's pushing? The one that would essentially criminalize what Sam is doing? It's going to committee next month. There are going to be public hearings in Harrisburg. People can testify."

  Ben's eyes widen. "You want to testify? Against the bill? In Harrisburg?"

  "That's what I said, isn't it?" I ask, warming to the idea. "I'm a concerned citizen. A taxpayer. A voter. I have every right to make my voice heard."

  "But if Richardson already suspects Sam--"

  "This isn't about Richardson or about Sam," I assure him. "She's not a state senator. She's just the one pushing the idea to all the state senators. I'll speak as a librarian, as someone who works with young people every day. I'll talk about role models and civic engagement and the importance of standing up for what's right. I'll be so wholesome and professional it'll make her teeth hurt."

  Ben looks skeptical. "And this has nothing to do with wanting to spite Richardson directly to her face?"

  I open my mouth to deny it, then close it again. He knows me too well. "Okay, maybe like... twelve percent spite. Fifteen, tops."

  He laughs despite himself. "Rachel--"

  "Fine, thirty percent spite," I admit. "But the rest is genuine concern for civil liberties and the precedent this would set for our community."

  "Uh-huh." Ben's not buying it, but there's a fond smile playing at his lips. "And what happens if Richardson retaliates?"

  I lift my chin. "Against an individual concerned citizen doing testimony in a public hearing, not even in her city? Specifically against me? Pff. Then I'll deal with it. But I'm not going to sit back and let her intimidate me - intimidate us - into silence. That's not who we are. That's not who I want Sam to see us being."

  Before Ben can respond, Moe and my mother return, Moe looking pleased and my mother looking mildly annoyed.

  "These cookies," Moe announces, holding up a small tin, "are excellent. Worth every penny, Camilla."

  My mother sniffs. "They're stale. I should have checked the date before buying them."

  "What are you two whispering about?" she asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  "Politics," I say, which isn't entirely a lie. "The anti-vigilante legislation that's going before the senate. The state senate."

  "Oh, that nonsense," my mother waves a dismissive hand. "As if Pennsylvania doesn't have bigger problems to worry about. Potholes the size of swimming pools, schools falling apart, and they're concerned about a few kids in costumes?"

  I blink, surprised by her take. "You don't support the bill?"

  "Support it?" she scoffs. "It's ridiculous. When I was growing up, we had real problems. Now they're wasting taxpayer money on this? Besides," she adds, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "that Richardson woman has terrible taste in shoes. You can tell a lot about a person from their shoes."

  Despite everything, I laugh. "I'll keep that in mind."

  "So what are you going to do about it?" my mother asks, fixing me with that penetrating gaze that always made me feel like I was five years old again, being questioned about a broken vase.

  "Do?" I repeat.

  "Yes, do," she says impatiently. "You obviously have a bee in your bonnet about this. What's your plan?"

  I glance at Ben, who gives me a small, supportive nod. "I'm thinking of testifying at the public hearing. Speaking out against the bill."

  My mother's eyebrows shoot up, and for a moment, I expect criticism or concern. Instead, a slow smile spreads across her face. "Good," she says firmly. "Show them what de Leon women are made of."

  Moe raises his wine glass. "I'll drink to that."

  Before I can respond, the front door opens and closes. "Mom? Dad? I'm home!" Sam's voice calls out. "Grandpa's car is outside - oh, is Grandma Camilla here too? What's going on?"

  I meet Ben's eyes across the table, a silent understanding passing between us. We'll tell her. Not everything, perhaps, but enough. Because Ben is right - she deserves to know what she's up against. And more importantly, she deserves to know that she's not facing it alone.

  "In the kitchen, honey," I call back, straightening my shoulders. "We need to talk."