The custody fight hasn’t started yet. But we aren’t waiting in fear either. Not anymore.
And with Rychne beside me, stranger in a strange world, I feel something I haven’t felt in years: unbroken determination.
I stand at the edge of the picnic table, shoulders squared against the late afternoon sun. The park is half-empty—tufts of grass, a bored pigeon, distant laughter from kids on the playground. If I squint, it looks peaceful. Then Buford lands behind me like a storm cloud.
He rolls out of the truck wearing that same stained camo tank top and a half-smirk that feels greasy even from ten feet away. The rattling of sunflower seeds in his pocket is a grotesquely cheerful soundtrack. He crunches one, spits it out like I’m supposed to be impressed.
“I got a right to see my kid,” he starts with that baritone bravado. “Don’t like that alien neighbor of yours, but I got rights. Fathers’ rights.”
I don’t flinch. I breathe. I let the folder—so heavy I’ve practiced tucking it into my arms—rest in my palms. Let himchew the sunflower seed into a paste of entitlement before I speak.
“You’ve called once,” I say, voice steady though my heart is hammering. “And that was three months ago. You skipped last year’s birthday. You’ve never come to parent-teacher conferences. You show up now, holding a lawsuit like it’s a barbecue invite?”
He shrugs, defensively. “People gotta know where their roots are. City folks ain’t got the value of a simple life.”
My chest tenses, but I stay calm. I open the folder, flipping through page after page: notarized statements, hospital intake forms, email logs, calendars filled with visits, explanation of absence records. Every single time he took welfare in Sammy’s name, every drunk voicemail, every disappear-and-skip weekend.
He steps closer—maybe he thinks volume is victory. “You got receipts, huh? You playing big shot with paper.”
“Yeah, I have receipts,” I say quietly, leaning in so he hears every word. “Because I’ve been raising her. You? You were never her dad. You were a rumor and a check. I'm the one who showed up.”
He opens his mouth, but I slide a hospital bill across the table—dated, itemized: “Missed time-sensitive dental evaluation due to unsupervised neglect.” His face blanches, seed husks rattling to the ground.
“I built everything around her,” I continue, voice cracking but firm. “Violin lessons, therapy, vet checkups, soccer practices. I did that all alone. I’m not saying you don’t get visitation—you do. But custody?”
He runs a hand through greasy hair like he’s considering it. “I can get visitation,” he mutters, but his voice strains, like defeat is a rock he’s trying to swallow whole.
“Fine,” I say, softening. “We’ll work out a schedule. Court-approved. Supervised if you want. But I’m not handing her over because your conscience kicked in after years of silence.”
He spits another seed husk, takes a step back, and his face crumples—like he’s shrinking in the light.
“You think I’m small?” He spits out the last sunflower seed and scuffs his boots in the dirt.
“Yes,” I say, emotions raw now. “Not because you’re poor. Not because you’re not fancy. But because you show up loud now, swinging fists, and expect compassion. That’s weak, Buford. Real fathers don’t threaten courts. They show up.”
The park is silent—no birds, no playground, just the swirl of wind in the trees and my pounding heartbeat.
He stares at me, then reaches into his tank and pulls out his truck keys. Two chunky fists clenched around a plastic ring.
“I’ll talk to my lawyer,” he says, voice low. “Get custody records sorted.”
I nod once. “That’s the process.” I fold the folder slowly and push it into my bag like it’s a boundary I’m drawing in the grass. “Make your case, show up when it matters. If you do… you’ll get visitation. If not… nothing changes.”
He watches me—something flickers in his eyes. Remorse? Respect? I’m not sure. I just feel something calm settle in my chest: steel.
He steps back, no reply. Just keys jangle, engine revs, and he backs out of the grass, kicking up dust.
I stand alone. The folder’s heavy in my bag, but my spine feels straight for the first time in weeks. My voice shook—but it held.
Down the block, I spot Rychne leaning against his truck, image inducer perfectly human, but I know he’s ready if anything goes south. I take a deep breath, hollow laughter rising: Buford thinks custody is a threat. He’s right. But heunderestimated the mother he abandoned—and the family she’s building.
Moments later, I head toward Rychne. He stands there, silent, steady. And I feel the shift fully, the weight sliding off me into reassurance. He doesn’t say a word; we don’t have to. He gave me the strength to say what needed saying.
Together, we walk back home, the late sun outlining us like promise—neutral territory held, boundaries drawn, and despite the tension, no longer alone.
The wind carries the faint tang of ozone as Rychne steps into the clearing—an imposing silhouette in tactical armor, his figure towering like a shadow at the edge of twilight. For a moment, the cicadas hush, the park holds its breath. I glance back at Buford, and his bravado withers under Rychne’s intense gold gaze. Then Rychne speaks, voice a low rumble rooted in ancient violence:
“You do not deserve her. You do not deserve either of them. And if you ever threaten this family again, I will show you why even the Grolgath learned to fear Vakutans.”
