Evan stands, straightening his uniform jacket. Always in uniform for these meetings—a silent reminder of his authority, his standing in the community.
“You brought him here. Sick.” His voice carries just enough judgment for the lawyers to hear, his eyes flicking to Tyson huddled on the couch. “If he’s too ill for school, why expose him to a stressful legal proceeding?”
And there it is. The concern trolling, the subtle implication of maternal negligence.
“Because I don’t have the luxury of a support system,” I say evenly. “Or the option to simply not show up.”
His jaw tightens. “If you needed help, you could have called me.”
We both know that isn’t true. That he would have used it as another reason to delay, to control.
“He’ll likely be fine by Friday,” I say, redirecting to his actual concern. “But if he’s still ill, we can reevaluate the weekend visit.”
“I want hourly updates on his condition. Temperature readings, food intake, medications.”
The control, slipping into place in new forms. No longer my husband who can demand my location, my attention, or my compliance—but still attempting to dictate terms of my live and to establish dominance in this new arrangement.
“I’ll update you if his condition changes,” I reply. “As any reasonable co-parent would expect.”
His eyes flick to where the lawyers are still engaged in conversation across the room. “Clearly your definition of ‘reasonable parenting’ includes dragging sick children to legal proceedings.”
The dig is delivered too quietly for others to hear, but loud enough to make my cheeks burn. I refuse to take the bait.
“Mommy?” Tyson’s small voice comes from the couch. “Can I have more water?”
I start to move, but Evan is already crossing to our son, all concern and attentiveness now that others might observe. Our son who’d asked if daddy was mad that he’d gotten sick. Our son who still flinches at sudden movements.
“Hey, buddy,” he says, kneeling by the couch. “Not feeling so hot today, huh?”
Thirty more days and I’ll finally be free.
GOLDA: One Year After
The neon sign buzzes and flickers, casting alternating shadows across the sidewalk.Rainy City Inkis neither the most upscale tattoo parlor in Seattle nor the most intimidating, occupying some middle ground that seemed approachable when I researched it online. Now, standing before its glass door with rain misting my face, I’m not so sure.
The bell jangles as I push inside, announcing my presence to the two artists and lone receptionist. All three look up, the artists scanning me with the quick assessment of people who make their living reading what others want permanently etched into their skin.
“Hi,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I have a one o’clock appointment? With Jamie?”
“That’s me.” A woman with a sleeve of geometric patterns and close-cropped blue hair stands from her station. “Golda, right?”
I nod, grateful she doesn’t offer to shake hands since mine are clammy with nerves.
“First tattoo?” she asks, gesturing me toward her chair.
“Is it that obvious?”
Her smile is kind but not patronizing. “Most of us remember our first. Come on back and tell me what you’re thinking.”
I’d emailed a simple design—thirteen small tally marks—but hadn’t explained their significance. Hadn’t known how to capture their meaning in a message to a stranger.
“Inside of my left elbow,” I say, shedding my coat and rolling up my sleeve. “Just those lines. Exactly as in the picture.”
Jamie studies the reference on her tablet, then my arm. “Simple enough. Any significance to the placement?”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. A year since the divorce was finalized. Two since I left. Three since Tyson’s birthday party when I made that first secret recording.
“It’s where he used to grab me,” I say, the words are easier to say than expected. “When he wanted to make a point without leaving a mark.”
