My throat tightens. “I thought it was the only way to make sure I didn’t lose him.”
“I understand. I really do. And you have every right to do that,” she sighs. “But talk to her. Don’t let the lawyers talk for you. And for God’s sake, get your own counsel, too. If y'all are doing this, don't represent yourself. Protect yourself, yes, but also show her you’re willing to stand up for what you want.”
Her words land like stones. For a second, I can almost see her across the table, eyes steady, hands folded like she’s praying for me to listen.
“I’ll try,” I whisper.
“I don't know what you two want to do about your relationship. But I know you can co-parent. Communicate with each other,” she says. “If you fight, Beckett will be the one to pay for it.”
"Thank you for calling, Margaret. I mean it."
The line clicks off. I stare at my reflection in the window, at a man who has spent his life hoping love would stay if he just didn’t push too hard.
“Fucking amateur,” I whisper.
Now I've waited too long, and we're fighting through attorneys and her mother. We aren't talking. And if I don'tprotect myself, I'll be even more fucked. I don't want to do it like this, but I have no one to blame but myself for finding us here, now.
I yank open my desk drawer and pull out the custody petition. The paper is heavy in my hands, weighted with all the words I couldn't say to her face.
My phone dings. For a split second, hope flares in my chest. But it's just Kaley with a meeting reminder. I toss the phone onto my desk and resume pacing.
What would I tell a client in my position? Document everything. Secure your rights. Don't wait for the other shoe to drop.
Well, I didn't secure my rights, and the other shoe didn't just drop. It torpedoed.
My hands stranglethe steering wheel as I drive across town, knuckles bleached white against the leather. The custody petition, that goddamn piece of paper, sits in my briefcase on the passenger seat. I can sense its weight through the leather, like a black hole pulling everything toward it.
For two weeks, I've carried it around like a loaded gun. Now I'm finally pulling the trigger.
Traffic crawls past palm trees and pristine storefronts that blur into meaningless shapes. My mind keeps circling back to Beckett's face, how his nose scrunches when he concentrates, the way his eyes light up when he talks about dinosaurs.
It's for him. For Beckett.
But even as the words form in my mind, tears well in my eyes. Everything is so fucked up, now. This isn't how I wanted it to go.
The courthouse looms ahead, its concrete façade bleached white in the Florida sun. I park and grab my briefcase, feeling the weight of what's inside.
The clerk’s office reeks of paper and industrial cleaner. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, painting everything in a sickly glow. I fall in line behind an elderly woman arguing over property records.
My phone signals. Blake. Not now. I need to get this done.
When my turn comes, the clerk barely glances up. Her eyes are flat, practiced in disinterest.
“Filing?”
I nod and slide the petition forward.Joint custody.The words glare up at me, final, irrevocable. In the back of my mind, I hear my father’s voice:Don’t expect anyone to save you.
She points at the signature line. I uncap my pen and press so hard the paper nearly tears. Each letter feels like an act of violence.
“That’ll be filed today. You’ll get confirmation once it’s processed and served.”
The stamp drops with a hollow thud. Official. Done. No going back.
“When will she be served?” My voice is rough, foreign.
“Within three business days. We’ll notify you when it happens.”
Three days. Seventy-two hours before Janie’s world detonates by my hand. If she's mad at me now, this may be the final straw.