“She didwhat?” His voice is ice. “No, absolutely not. Michaela is not to leave the building with anyone except me or the approved list. I don’t care what she said or what documentation she claimed to have.” A pause. “I’m on my way. Keep her in the office until I get there.”
He hangs up and is already grabbing his jacket.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Michaela’s mother showed up at the school.” His jaw is tight. “Tried to take her. Said she had custody paperwork.”
“Does she?”
“She hasn’t seen Michaela in six and a half years. She has nothing.” He’s moving toward the door. “I have to go.”
“I’ll come with you.”
He pauses, looking back at me. “You don’t have to?—”
“I know.” I’m already standing. “But you shouldn’t walk into that alone.”
It’s not something I would have said a year ago. Maybe not even a month ago. But David just sat through my confession without flinching. The least I can do is return the favor.
“Besides,” I add, “I could use the distraction from my own disaster.”
Something flickers in David’s expression. Gratitude, maybe. Or just the recognition that sometimes you need someone in your corner, even if they can’t fix anything.
“OK,” he says. “Let’s go.”
The school is a stately brick building in Lincoln Park, the kind of place that screams old money and high expectations. David drives like a man possessed, weaving through traffic with a precision that suggests he’s done this before.
“Her name is Kelsie,” he says as we pull into the parking lot. “Michaela’s mother. Left when Michaela was barely old enough to walk. Signed away her parental rights six months later.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Haven’t heard from her since. Until today.”
“She can’t actually take her, right? Legally?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean she can’t cause chaos.” He kills the engine. “Which is exactly what she’s good at.”
We walk into the building together. The front office is all warm wood and inspirational posters, designed to make parents feel as though their children are in capable hands. A woman behind the desk recognizes David immediately.
“Mr. Kingsley. Principal Harrison is waiting for you in her office. Michaela is with her—she’s fine, just a little shaken up.”
“Thank you.” David is already moving down the hall.
I follow, feeling distinctly out of place. This is not my world—children and schools and custody battles. My world is code and data and problems with clean solutions. But David asked me to come, or at least didn’t refuse when I offered, and that feels like it matters.
The principal’s office is at the end of the hall. David knocks once and enters without waiting for a response.
“Daddy!”
Michaela launches herself at David the moment he’s through the door. She’s small for eight, with dark hair pulled into uneven pigtails and her father’s serious eyes. Right now those eyes are red-rimmed, her lower lip trembling despite obvious efforts to be brave.
“Hey, monster.” David drops to his knees, pulling her into a hug. “You’re OK. I’ve got you.”
“She called me over to the fence at playtime and said she was my mom.” Michaela’s voice is muffled against his shoulder. “Butshe didn’t feel like a mom. She felt like a stranger, so I called the teacher.”
“You did exactly the right thing, sweetheart.”
I hang back near the door, trying to be invisible. This is a family moment, private and painful, and I’m an interloper.
But then Michaela pulls back from David and notices me.
“Uncle Logan?” She sniffles, confusion cutting through the tears. “What are you doing here?”
