My laugh is watery, short-lived. "But that’s done now. We’re over."
Her gaze sharpens. "Why?"
I pull the folder closer, flip it open with trembling fingers, and slide it across the table. Legal language glares up from the page. "Last night, I found this. When I was wiping the counter after dinner, this fell out of his jacket pocket. He’s petitioning for joint legal custody. He wants to be named as Beckett’s father."
"There's nothing wrong with that, Janie. He wants to be in Beckett's life. That's a good thing."
Tears sting, hot and relentless. "I agree, but he didn't talk to me about it. I would have been all for it."
"So, what?"
"It was a punch in the gut, Mom. I thought we were being open with each other. I thought I was giving him the grace he needed, letting him have time while we kept building something. But all this time, he’s been working behind my back. Without telling me. Without giving me a chance to get my own counsel. He was going to blindside me for custody."
The sob breaks free, ragged and raw.
She’s out of her chair in an instant, gathering me into her arms. "Oh, baby," she whispers, rocking me the wayshe used to when I was small. "I’ve got you. We’ll figure this out. You’re not alone."
Mom's eyes shift from me to the custody papers, her expression unreadable. My heart pounds so loudly I swear she must hear it across the table.
"He's going to take Beckett from me." My voice sounds hollow, foreign to my own ears.
"Let me see exactly what we're dealing with."
She takes the creased paper from the top and smooths it open. Her lips tighten when she reads the header:Petition for Joint Custody.
My chest heaves as I struggle for air. The betrayal burns hotter than any anger I've ever felt.
Mom reads through the document, her fingers tracing legal terms I couldn't bear to examine closely. I watch her face for clues, for some sign.
“A father,” Mom says simply. “Warren is Beckett’s father. He has rights.”
"Again, I agree. And I never had any intention of keeping Beckett from him. It’s the fact that he was putting off talking to me about us, about our future, while doing this behind my back. I would have worked with him, not fought him. I love him, and I want him in Beckett’s life, even if that means we don’t have a future.”
Mom’s eyes meet mine, not unkind but steady, the kind of gaze that strips away excuses. She doesn’t dismiss my pain, but her quiet gravity forces me to listen through the storm in my head.
“Warren was raised by people who threw him away,” she says softly. “Now he has a son who was kept from him. Did you really think he wouldn’t take steps to protect himself once he knew? I’m not saying he’s perfect. But he’s an attorney. Drafting documents is what they do.”
The truth in her words stings worse than judgmentwould have. I know she isn't taking his side, but it still hurts that she's so goddamned calm right now. The fact remains. He should have talked to me. We were sleeping together. It's not like we hardly saw each other.
The kitchen clock ticks in the silence. Outside, a neighbor’s sprinkler hisses. I sit frozen, the weight of it pressing down. For five years I lived on edge, waiting for this secret to explode. Every milestone with Beckett carried the shadow of what I was keeping from Warren.
Now it’s finally happened. The bomb has detonated, and I’m standing in the fallout.
“Janie.” Mom reaches across the table, her fingers warm around mine. “This isn’t the end. It’s just a different beginning. But you have to protect yourself, too, while you figure out what that beginning looks like.”
Tears blur my vision. “What should I do?”
“I think you should talk to a family attorney,” she says firmly. “It doesn’t mean war. It just means you’ll understand your rights and Beckett’s. And depending on what the lawyer tells you, then yes, you should talk to Warren. Because communication is the only way this ends without damage.”
“I don’t know the first thing about finding an attorney. How do I even do that? Google?”
I almost laugh at the prospect, but I'm too spent from all the crying.
Mom pulls out her phone. “What was her name..? Nicole Jensen. She helped Cile’s sister with her divorce last year. She’s smart, tough, and I think you can trust her to give you a clear picture.”
I find the number online and click the blue hyperlink phone number on her site before I can second-guess myself. The receptionist answers on the third ring, and I force myself to speak clearly.
"Good morning. My name is Jane Harrelson." My voice wavers. I clear my throat and continue, "I need a consultation about a custody matter. As soon as possible."