He has no idea. No idea that his “thinking about me” might cost me everything that matters.
I delete the text without responding.
I can’t work. Can’t eat. Can’t do anything except pace around my house and calculate how quickly Evan can move through the legal system when he wants something.
Judge Willis could sign temporary custody papers today if Evan pushes hard enough. Emergency modification. Children atrisk. I could pick them up from school and find out I have to hand them over to their father by bedtime.
The thought makes me physically sick.
At noon, I call Jessica.
“I need help.” My voice comes out hoarse, panicked. “Evan’s threatening custody modification.”
“Slow down. What happened?”
I explain about the photo, about Evan’s call, about Judge Willis and the emergency modification threats. Jessica listens without interrupting, but I can hear her typing notes.
“One photograph of you on a date isn’t grounds for custody modification,” she says finally.
“It is if the judge is Evan’s golf buddy. You know how this works, Jessica. Willis signs whatever Evan wants.”
“He still has to follow legal procedures?—”
“Does he? Because last time he moved our hearing up by two weeks without notice and called it a ‘scheduling adjustment.’ This is the same man who accepted Evan’s word that I was ‘emotionally unstable’ without requiring any evidence.”
Jessica is quiet for a moment. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to keep my children.”
“Then we fight this. We document everything, we challenge any emergency motions, we?—”
“What if I just... stopped?”
“Stopped what?”
“Seeing Dex. Dating anyone. What if I just focused on being the perfect single mother and gave Evan nothing to work with?”
“Golda—”
“I could end things now, before it gets serious. Before there are more photos or more headlines. Just go back to how things were.”
“Is that what you want?”
What I want? I want to not live in terror that every choice I make could result in losing my children. I want to not have my ex-husband monitoring my life like a probation officer. I want to be able to have dinner with someone without it becoming a weapon against me.
But what I want doesn’t matter if it costs me Tyson and Blythe.
“I want my kids,” I say.
“Then we’ll make sure you keep them. Don’t make any decisions about your personal life based on Evan’s threats. That’s exactly what he wants.”
After we hang up, I try to follow her advice. I try to focus on work, on normal mom tasks, on anything except the growing certainty that I’m going to have to choose between my children and any possibility of happiness.
My phone buzzes again. Dex.
Miss talking to you.
The simple honesty of it breaks something in my chest. I want to tell him everything—about the photo, about Evan’s threats, about how scared I am. But I also want to protect him from the toxic mess that is my life.
