"No," Lena paused. "But the people around them often act like they can."
Annie was quiet for a mile. "He said I could say no."
Lena turned her head and studied her daughter's profile in the reflected bus light. "Yes."
"Could I really?"
Lena reached over and gently fixed the top misaligned button of Annie's cardigan. "Yes, baby. You could."
Annie accepted the answer, though her silence suggested she was evaluating it. Children frequently knew when adults were telling the truth in principle instead of in practice.
By the time they reached their building, the winter wind had sharpened. Lena held Annie's hand tighter than usual as they climbed the narrow stairs to the second-floor apartment. The hallway smelled faintly of old radiator heat, fried onions from a neighbor's late dinner, and the cheap bleach the landlord used near the mailboxes when he remembered to. It was not much, but it was entirely theirs.
Inside, Lena turned on the single lamp by the sofa and set her purse down without taking off her coat. Their apartment looked exactly as it had that morning: two mismatched kitchen chairs, a narrow couch with a faded blanket over one arm, Annie's crayons in a chipped mug near the window, and the old radio on the counter that sometimes worked better if you tapped it twice on the side. The ordinary sight of it should have calmed her, but instead, it made the hotel ballroom feel even more dangerous—as though something impossible had come too close to touching the life she had spent years holding together by her fingertips.
Annie sat on the couch and kicked off her worn shoes. "Mama?"
"Yes."
"If I got adopted, would I have a different last name?"
Lena closed her eyes for half a second. "We are not deciding anything tonight, Annie."
"That's not what I asked."
Children were completely merciless with truth. Lena took off her coat and hung it over the chair by the door. "Maybe," she said finally. "Sometimes."