Suddenly, the table that separates the two men doesn’t seem like much of a barrier. Not when Grant is towering over everyone and looking like he might actually reach out and crush Steven with his bare hands.
“Careful, Heather.” Steven is still smiling, but a few tiny beads of sweat have appeared at his brow as he glances from me to Grant and back again. “Your new man is in danger of reinforcing everything I’m going to say today. The instability. The volatility. It’s not a good look for either of you, frankly.”
“Don’t say another word to her. Don’t even look at her. You were a shitty husband to her, a shitty father to April, and now I see you’re a pathetic excuse for a man on top of all that.”
“Oh, such tough words from the big-shot goalie. You’re over here defending her and paying her bills, and I’m the pathetic one?”
Grant doesn’t say anything this time, but there’s a real surge of fear in Steven’s eyes when the six-foot-seven goalie starts to step around the side of the table.
Fortunately, Steven’s lawyers and all three of ours step in before things can get any uglier, and Steven is escorted back to his seat.
But not before he flashes another condescending look my way.
Grant waits a beat, then sits back down next to me. “As much as I’d personally like to knock every one of his teeth out of his inflated head, I’ll happily settle for watching our lawyers make a fool out of him.”
“Agreed,” I say, reminding myself to keep my head up and my shoulders back. “He isn’t worth the time or effort it would take to kick his ass, anyway. But it sure would be fun to watch.”
The door at the front of the courtroom opens, and a bailiff steps through. “All rise. The Honorable Judge Morrison presiding.”
My heart clenches as everyone stands, and I have to grip the edge of the table to keep my hands from shaking.
Judge Morrison enters—an older woman with reading glasses perched on her nose and gray hair that’s styled into a perfect bob. She takes her seat at the bench and reviews the papers in front of her before looking up at both tables.
“Please be seated,” she says. Her voice is quiet but carries enough authority that it seems to fill the entire room. “We’re here today for a custody petition filed by Mr. Steven Walsh regarding the minor child, April Lucas. Let’s begin.”
The next hour passes in a blur of legal arguments and testimony. Steven’s lawyer goes first, painting a picture of a loving father who wants to reconnect with his daughter after years of being “kept away” by me.
It makes me sick to listen to the constant stream of lies and the reframing of abandonment as victimhood while he points to me as the villain.
But Richard is ready. When it’s his turn to speak, he stands up and methodically dismantles every claim.
“Your Honor, Mr. Walsh hasn’t paid a single dollar in child support in nine years. He’s made no attempts at contact until three weeks ago. He’s not listed on any school records, medical records, or emergency contact forms. He has no established relationship with this child whatsoever.”
Steven’s lawyer tries to argue that I made it impossible for Steven to be involved, that I moved frequently and kept April hidden from him.
Jennifer stands to counter. “Your Honor, Ms. Lucas has lived in three different cities over the past nine years—all due to promotions and advancement opportunities from within the same company. Hardly a sign of instability or poor temperament. But besides that, Mr. Walsh knew her family’s contact information. He knew her maiden name. He made no effort to find her or her daughter until now. That’s abandonment, not exclusion.”
The judge makes notes and asks relevant questions, but her expression doesn’t give anything away.
Then Steven takes the stand.
He’s smooth and confident at first, just like I knew he would be. He talks about wanting to be a father, about regretting his past mistakes, and about how he’s in a stable position now to provide for April.
But Richard doesn’t let him get comfortable.
“Mr. Walsh, you claim you want to be involved in April’s life now. Can you tell the court your daughter’s birthday?”
Steven blinks, clearly caught off guard. “I… it’s in the spring.”
“That’s not what I asked, but I’ll rephrase the question to be more precise. What is April’s date of birth?”
“April twentieth.”
“It’s April seventh,” Richard says flatly. “What grade is she in?”
“Third grade.”
“Incorrect. What’s her favorite subject?”
