“Expedited?” My voice wobbles. “Why would they skip mediation?”
“They’re arguing it would be unproductive,” he says, leaning back slightly. “That the two of you are too far apart to reach a compromise.” He taps a highlighted section. “They’re tying it to the start of the school year.”
My jaw tightens. “Evie’s four.”
“I know.” His voice stays gentle. “But they’re framing it as a need for stability before the year begins.”
“And the judge?” I already know the answer, but I ask anyway.
“In a small town,” he says carefully, “certain names move things along faster. The request was granted.”
The room tilts.
“So what does this actually mean?” I ask.
“It means we skip mediation entirely,” he says. “This goes straight to a hearing. Testimony. Evidence. Witnesses. No buffer.” He meets my eyes. “We’re looking at two to four weeks. The judge wants a ruling before school starts.”
Two to four weeks.
Four weeks to defend the life Evie and I have built from the ground up.
My hands shake in my lap. I curl my fingers into my palms to hide it.
He watches me for a moment, then leans forward. “This doesn’t mean you’re losing. You’ve been her primary parent her entire life. You provide consistency, structure, and love. That matters.”
I nod, even though my throat feels too tight to speak.
“But,” he continues, choosing his words carefully, “we also need to be mindful of how your day-to-day life appears from the outside. Judges don’t just rule on facts. They rule on impressions.”
That word follows me out of the office.
The drive home barely registers. Trees blur into streaks of green, and even when I pull into my driveway, my heart is still racing. I sit there longer than necessary, hands clenched around the steering wheel, breathing like I’ve just run a mile.
My phone buzzes in the console, Cam’s name lighting up the screen.
For a moment, I don’t pick it up. Not because I don’t want to talk to him—but because if I do, I might fall apart, and I’m not sure I can put myself back together yet.
Because I already know what Daniel is doing.
He’s rewriting his absence. Dressing it up in legal language and clean timelines. Turning five years of silence into something that looks responsible on paper. And I hate that it might work.
The thought sits heavy in my chest.
I grab my phone and text him.
Kate:
Are you home?
Cam:
Yeah. Everything okay?
Kate:
Can you come over? I need to talk.
Cam:
