He nods, then stares down at his hands, turning them over as if searching for injuries. “Is it normal to feel like I am losing, even when I know I am right?”
“Very normal,” I say. “But we have more evidence than them, Colton.”
“But she’s the mother. Kids rarely stay with the father.”
“Livy wants to stay with you. The judge will listen to her, and the rest needs further investigation. They are right about your home situation though. Your parents aren’t the youngest and I think you said they do have some medical issues, right? Colton, we need to be prepared.”
He hesitates, and I can tell he hates what he’s about to say.
“Yeah. My dad’s already had a heart attack, and my mom… she has lupus. But they’re okay,” he adds quickly. “It’s managed. They’re doing well.”
I sigh.
Theyaregood people.
Warm, kind—the ones you trust instinctively. And the way Colton talks about them? Like they hung the moon. It’s… a lot. In a way that makes something in my chest ache a little.
But if Botox Batman and his designer sidekick decide to weaponize medical history in court—and they will—then Colton’s parents go from loving grandparents to “unreliable childcare” in about three seconds flat. Fuck. I can’t tell him that right in the face. I just can’t right now. But it’s fact.
God, we should’ve had more time.
With a little preparation, we could’ve built something cleaner. More stable on paper. Hell, we could’ve even found him a fake wife or something. Someone to round out the picture, make his home life look less like a question mark and more like a guarantee.
Down the hall, Mira is already on her phone, gesturing wildly as her lawyer tries to steer her away from a nearby reporter. In the gallery, the grandmother sits alone, eyes closed, hands now slack in her lap, the portrait of a woman quietly preparing for battle.
Back in the courtroom,the mediator reviews the files with a slowness that borders on poetic.
“Let’s get right to it,” she finally says. “I’ve reviewed all submitted materials, including the exhibits and statements from both parties. Here’s what I see: a lot of pain, a lot of finger-pointing, and a child caught between two homes that cannot communicate except through the courtroom.”
She turns to Mira’s table. “Ms. Kirillov. Your testimony is inconsistent with the documentary evidence, particularly regarding the child’s medical care and school attendance, not to mention your decision to leave a six-year-old home alone. I am not rendering judgment yet, but I am deeply concerned.”
Mira’s lawyer tries to interrupt, but the mediator’s hand snaps up like a stop sign. “You’ll have your say, Mr. Goldblatt. Right now, I’m talking.” She swivels to me. “Ms. Davis. Your client has presented a credible case for emergency custody, but I want to hear from independent witnesses next time—teachers, daycare supervisors, and physicians—before I make a final decision.”
She scans the room, lingering on Colton.
“Effective immediately,” she continues. “The child shall remain in the care of Mr. Kirillov until further order of the court. A full review of all evidence, including direct witness testimony, will be conducted in two weeks. I expect both parties to refrain from antagonistic behavior and to facilitate the child’s access to both parents pending the final determination.”
She leans back, clasps her hands over her stomach, and lets the silence simmer.
The words hit like a slap, and for a moment, no one moves.
Then Mira bursts into sobs—loud, shattering, the kind of sound you make when you realize the world isn’t going to bend just because you want it to. Botox Batman leans in, whispers something, and Mira nods, dabbing furiously at her eyes with a tissue. She would have been an excellent actor.
Next to me, Colton’s exhale is so forceful it rocks his shoulders forward. For the first time in days, he slouches. Damn, I want to hug him, but settle for a professional smile and a whispered, “Good work.”
“Court is adjourned. I’ll see you all in fourteen days,” the mediator says.
And that’s it.
We pack our things and file out into the corridor, a river of family members, assistants and courthouse security. Once we’re out, the midday sun cuts through the window and lands right on Colton’s face.
He squints, then grins—it’s a brief, lopsided thing, like a man who’s finally remembered how to. And I just stand there, uselessly at his side, looking up and up and up. I’m having the most inconvenient urge to throw my arms around him. Me! Hugging a client! The Iron Lady does not hug clients, especially not ones with shoulders like that. I should hate him but I’m not so sure I still do…
Mira doesn’t look at us as she passes. The anger is gone though, drained out of her, leaving something else in its place. Something that might be vulnerability. Or maybe just exhaustion. I can’t tell. She feels impossibly far away. Like I wouldn’t know where to begin to understand her, even if I tried.
“Two weeks,” Colton says.
“Two weeks,” I echo. “But you can keep her for now. That’s good, considering you kidnapped her.” I still want to facepalm myself when I think of it.
