I pull the custody papers closer. Nicole’s notes slash the margins: emphasize limited contact, stress consistency of care.
Each one makes me flinch. This isn’t Warren. He’s Beckett’s father—the man teaching him soccer, the man who carries him upstairs when he falls asleep during movies.
The man I love.
I pace the length of the office. Outside the window, Palm Beach glitters with evening lights. Something about fall nights here used to be cozy. Low humidity, mild temperature, the smell of a fire burning in someone's chimney in the distance.
My phone buzzes against the glass. Warren’s name glows on the screen, along with a photo of him withBeckett on his shoulders at the Christmas tree farm. It's not a text. A call.
My hand hovers, heart pounding. What would I even say?
Four rings. Five. Six.
I don’t answer.
The silence afterward presses down, heavy as stone. Nicole told me not to talk to him until we have an agreement. I have to protect myself.
I gather the three piles—custody, career, miracle—and slide them into my leather portfolio. Tomorrow will bring more battles, more decisions.
But tonight, I’ve made one choice.
I stand, shoulders squared, chest tight with steel and dread. I can survive this, one declined phone call at a time.
Even if the worst is still coming.
THIRTY-TWO
Warren
It’s been nearly a week since Janie served me the papers. Nine days of silence.
The petition still sits on my dining table, pages splayed open like a wound I can’t close. I know every step that comes next—response deadlines, hearings, discovery, and mediation. I’ve walked a hundred clients through it.
But this time it isn’t strategy. It isn’t leverage. It’s Janie. It’s Beckett. And no matter what the statute says, I know the truth: once papers are filed, nobody walks away unscathed.
I pace the hardwood, bare feet dragging, the silence of the condo squeezing until my chest aches.
I pick it up, the weight of the pages too familiar in my hands.Sole physical and legal custody.I’ve drafted the same language for clients a hundred times. I know it’s a starting point, an opening salvo.
By filing my own petition, I killed any chance of civil conversation. I put on the lawyer’s hat because I didn’t know how else to talk to her. Procedure, law, written boundaries—I hid inside what I know best.
And now here we are. It didn’t have to be like this.
I check my phone again. Nothing. Eight unanswered texts. Five calls sent straight to voicemail.
I pour coffee I don't need. It's my third cup, and it's not even seven. My hands shake slightly, either from caffeine or lack of sleep. I can't tell anymore.
This isn’t a legal matter. It never was. Yet here we are, hiding behind attorneys and petitions instead of talking like we used to—two people who once sat across kitchen tables like family, when honesty came easy.
I set the mug down hard.
Fear of vulnerability got me here. That’s mine. That’s the scar from being abandoned and cast out.
But I also carried something that was theirs. The Carter way. My father and brother never loved anyone but themselves. They took shortcuts, hid behind contracts, money, and manipulation. When things got messy, they filed papers or threw power at it.
And I did the same when I filed that petition. I chose the safety of statutes over the risk of speaking my heart. Procedure over vulnerability. Control over connection.
Margaret was right. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to make waves, keeping my head down so I wouldn’t get cast out again. But meekness isn’t safety. It’s just another way of losing the people I can’t bear to lose.