Minor Child:Evelyn Prescott
Relief Requested:Modification of existing custody order to grant the Petitioner and Respondent joint legal and physical custody of the minor child.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
Daniel. The man who left when I was five months pregnant. The man who never reaches out first to set up visits, who has never sent more money than the bare court-ordered minimum and has forgotten her birthday twice. The man who moved to Roanoke with his shiny new wife and shiny new life.
I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles ache.
The spaghetti bubbles over on the stove, hissing against the burner. The smell hits sharp and sour, but I can’t move. I can’t think past the roar in my ears.
When Evie reappears, soap bubbles on her hands, her smile knocks the air right out of me.
“Mommy, the water’s too hot.”
I blink, shake myself back, and rush to the pot. “I’ve got it, sweetheart.”
I turn off the burner and move the pot to the sink. Then I stop to scoop her up, pressing a kiss to her forehead like I can somehow protect her from what’s coming. “Everything’s okay.”
“Are you crying?” she asks, tilting her head.
I force a laugh. “Just the onions.”
She narrows her eyes, five-year-old skepticism on full display. “We’re not cooking onions.”
“Right. Then…the garlic.”
She studies me for a second, then leans in and kisses my cheek. “It’s okay, Mommy. I’ll help you fix it.”
That’s what undoes me. The innocence and trust. The way she saysfix itas if everything in the world could be fixed with enough love and determination.
I turn away before she can see the tears spill over, blinking fast as I pour the sauce onto the noodles.
Chapter ten
Cam
I’m half-watching an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond—background noise, nothing more—when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. The show doesn’t hold my attention, but her name on the screen snaps me upright so fast my feet hit the floor. Kate never texts this late.
Kate:
Are you awake?
My pulse kicks.
Cam:
Yeah. You okay?
The typing dots flash, vanish, flash again—then:
Kate:
Can you talk?
I don’t text back. I call.
She answers on the second ring. Her breath hits the line first—thin, uneven.
