But it has to be done.
I tell myself it’s not punishment. It’s Beckett. It’s protection. It’s making sure I don’t lose another day with my son.
The sun hits me like a slap as I step outside, bile risingfast. My chest aches, hollowed out. I've never felt so deflated.
This isn’t protection. It’s loss, spreading like ice through my veins. I’ve already lost.
I slam the front door behind me and stalk into my empty condo. The silence greets me like an old friend, the only one I haven't betrayed or been betrayed by.
I drop into my chair, yanking at my tie, the weight of the day settling like chains across my shoulders. The collar is strangling me, a physical manifestation of everything closing in.
My phone rings. Kaley. For a second, I consider ignoring it. I’ve had enough judgment for one day. But I swipe to answer anyway.
"What's up, Kaley?"
“The clerk’s office called. Judge Harrington signed off, and Marcus Jones starts the diversion program tomorrow,” she says, her voice bright with the kind of cautious hope I barely recognize these days. “I just hung up with them.”
I close my eyes, leaning back in the chair. “Judge Harrington signed off on it?”
“He did,” she says proudly.
A breath leaves me slow and uneven. “That’s good news.”
“It was the right move. You worked hard on the emergency appeal,” she says softly.
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “Thank God for second chances.”
"I'll let you go. Phone's ringing."
The line clicks off. I set the phone down, staring at it until the screen goes dark. The mentorship diversion makes it ninety days at an in-house boys' home instead of eighteen months in a rough juvenile detention center. A much better outcome for him.
A win. Small, but solid. Something that actually went right today.
The feeling doesn’t last, though, when I catch a glimpse of the petition sticking out of my briefcase.
"Should've done this the second she told me." My voice sounds raw, even to my own ears. "Shouldn't have waited. Shouldn't have hoped. Shouldn't have let myself fall for her."
The silence answers back, oppressive. I close my eyes, but all I see is Janie. Then I hear her laugh on the porch, feel her hair brushing my jaw, the way her body curved against mine as if she was meant to fit there.
My heart twists in my chest. I wanted to believe, even for a handful of nights, that the fairy tale could be real. I clung to the hope that we could somehow build something out of this mess.
Now the realization that this is irretrievably broken is louder than the memory.
She'll take him away again. The fear is metallic on my tongue. First sign of trouble, and she'll run. Just like before.
I reach for the bottle of Macallan on the side table. It's too early for a drink, but I need something to drown the noise. The amber liquid catches the late afternoon light as I pour three fingers into a glass.
I think of my father's deathbed, his gray eyes hollow with regret.Being a father means showing up.
The whiskey warms nothing but my tongue. The numbness refuses to spread deeper. I'm about to pour another when a knock rattles the door.
My pulse quickens. Immediately, my mind goes to Janie. She's here to talk. Maybe Margaret called her, too, and she had more balls than me. Hope surges.
I set down the glass with unsteady hands, a foolishsurge of hope drowning out the lawyer's voice in my head. Maybe we can fix this before things get ugly.
My bare feet move across the hardwood, each step pulling me forward like a tide. I reach for the handle before caution catches me.
"Coming." No answer. Just another knock.