We migrated to the couch, my legs draped over his lap, sharing ice cream from the container while watching cooking shows with the sound off, making up dialogue.
"'What have you brought us today, Kevin?'" I narrated in a terrible British accent.
"'It's a deconstructed pizza with childhood trauma as garnish,'" Brad replied, somehow making his voice higher.
"'The trauma is undercooked.'"
"'Yes, Chef. Sorry, Chef. My father never loved me, Chef.'"
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the ice cream. Brad caught it, then somehow we were kissing again, ice cream forgotten until it dripped on us both.
"We're a mess," I murmured against his lips, tasting vanilla and him.
"The best kind of mess," he said, pulling me closer as the cooking show continued in the background, judges critiquing disasters far less sweet than ours.
Chapter 24: Brad
The courtroom smelled like old wood and fear-sweat, a combination that made my stomach turn as I adjusted my tie for the hundredth time. Sarah's parents perched across the aisle like carrion birds, their lawyer arranging documents like he was dealing cards in a rigged game.
Rebecca, my attorney, sat beside me radiating the kind of calm that cost eight hundred dollars an hour. It didn't help. My chest felt like someone was tightening a C-clamp around my ribs, one slow turn at a time.
"Mr. Wilder," the judge began, her voice cutting through the room's tension, "we're here to determine what arrangement best serves Finn's interests."
Best serves Finn's interests. Like these people had any idea what Finn needed. Like they'd spent nights counting his breaths, recognizing the specific wheeze that meant trouble versus the one that meant bad dreams. Like they knew he needed his nebulizer at exactly the right angle or he'd fight it
My knuckles went white against the table's edge as Sarah's parents' lawyer stood.
"Your Honor, we have concerns about Mr. Wilder's ability to provide stable care for a child with serious medical needs." The man's voice dripped false concern. "His career requires extensive travel, leaving Finn in the care of..." he paused, glancing at his notes with theatrical precision, "a woman he's known for mere weeks."
The words hit like crosschecks, each one calculated for maximum damage. Under the table, Serena's fingers foundmine, her grip the only thing keeping me from vaulting the barrier and showing this asshole exactly what my injured knee could still do.
"Additionally," the lawyer continued, building momentum like a freight train, "Mr. Wilder's recent injury compromises his ability to respond to medical emergencies. We have documentation of seventeen emergency room visits in the past eight months alone—"
"Objection." Rebecca's voice sliced through his grandstanding. "Those ER visits demonstrate Mr. Wilder's extraordinary vigilance in managing his son's condition. Each visit was precautionary, medically appropriate, and resulted in positive outcomes."
The judge nodded, making notes, but the poison was already spreading through the room. They were painting me as a negligent father, a man who chose hockey over his son, who dumped his kid on the first available woman so he could chase pucks and glory. They took every 2 AM drive to the hospital, every canceled practice when Finn's breathing sounded wrong, every moment of terror I'd swallowed to stay strong for my son, and twisted it into evidence of failure.
When Serena took the stand, my breath caught. She wore the navy dress I'd bought her last week, professional but soft, her hair pulled back to reveal the delicate line of her neck. But it was her voice—steady, warm, unshakeable—that commanded the room.
"Ms. Voss." Rebecca's tone was warm, inviting trust. "You're the new Inclusion Specialist at Wrightwood Primary?"
"Three years in special education." Serena's hands stayed perfectly still—she'd practiced that, I knew, after reading that fidgeting made witnesses look unreliable. "I specialize in helpingchildren with chronic health conditions navigate academic and social challenges."
"And you've been living with Mr. Wilder and Finn?"
"For the past two months, yes." No hesitation, no shame. Just fact.
"Can you describe the home environment?"
Serena's eyes found mine briefly before she answered. "Brad Wilder runs his home like a NASA mission. There are laminated action plans in every room. Medications organized by time, dosage, and expiration date. He's taught Finn to read his peak flow meter like other kids read comics." Her voice gained heat. "I've watched him wake up at 3 AM because Finn's breathing sounded different—not bad, just different."
She painted us in vivid strokes: morning medication quizzes disguised as pancake preparation. Emergency drills practiced with the same intensity as playoff prep. The hand signals Finn had taught her—chest tap for tight breathing, two fingers for needing space, thumb to pinky for emergency.
"More importantly," Serena continued, voice dropping to that register that made you lean in, "I watch a seven-year-old who says 'I have asthma, it doesn't have me' because his father taught him the difference. I see a child who isn't afraid of his own body because Brad normalized every nebulizer treatment, every ER visit, every moment of can't-breathe into 'this is just Tuesday, buddy, we've got this.'"
The opposing lawyer rose like a vulture sensing weakness. "Ms. Voss, you've known the family for what—two months?"
"Yes."
