THIRTY-FOUR
Warren
The petition sits there on my mahogany desk, all official legal language and court stamps. It's just paper, but somehow it seems alive, pulsing with threat, with fear, with everything I've become that I swore I never would.
I pick up my phone, scrolling through the text chain with Janie.
I'll call you later, when I get home.
That was two days ago. She never called. Of course she didn't.
I set the phone down and stare at the custody papers again. My own handwriting covers the top sheet, the practiced penmanship my boarding school teachers drilled into me.
Looking at it now, I see my father's hand in every stroke.
"Fuck."
The word escapes without permission, bouncing offthe empty walls of my office. It's barely eight in the morning, and people will start filing in soon.
I tap my finger against the petition. This thing, this stack of legal threats, is what Charles Carter, III would have done. Wield power when words fail. Force compliance when vulnerability seems too risky.
Is this really who I am? The man who sleeps with a woman, reads bedtime stories to his son, then goes home and drafts legal documents to use against her?
I pull my tie loose, suddenly unable to breathe. The memory of Janie's face when she slammed the door crashes through me.
My phone pops up with a calendar reminder: "Beckett - Holiday performance at school Friday."
Something in my chest caves. I can't show up there if she doesn't think it's appropriate.
I don't want to be the father who shows up with a court order. I want to be the father who shows up with his mom. I want to be the man who deserves Janie's trust, not the one using the law to take what I'm afraid she might not give.
I stand up, grabbing the entire folder. The decision crystallizes in my mind, suddenly so clear I can't believe I ever saw it differently. I told her I would. So why haven't I rescinded it yet?
This isn't about protecting my rights. It's about being the kind of man I want my son to be proud of.
I shove the papers into my briefcase, grab my keys, and head for the door. Kaley is just arriving, coffee in hand, surprise registering when she sees me leaving.
"Cancel my morning. I'll be at the courthouse."
Twenty minutes later, the courthouse smells like copier ink and musty wood paneling. The line ahead of me moveswith the enthusiasm of a tax audit. It's 8:29, and the window doesn't open until 8:30.
Three people stand between me and the counter. A woman with a toddler balanced on her hip, an elderly man with a stack of papers thicker than my briefcase, and a guy about my age who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. Join the club, buddy.
I adjust the papers in my hand, the withdrawal notice staring back at me. So simple. One form to undo all the damage that started all of this shit.
My phone beeps. Blake. I silence it.
A woman in her late forties sits at the desk behind the plexiglass wall and slides open a small window, indicating she is open for business. I look at my watch. 8:31 on the dot. She bought herself a whole extra minute.
The line shuffles forward as the woman with the toddler finishes her business. The kid stares at me with solemn eyes as they pass, and all I can see is Beckett. My son. Not my property. Not a bargaining chip.
"Next."
The elderly man steps forward. Each minute feels like an hour.
"Why are you really doing this?" The voice in my head sounds suspiciously like my father. "She'll never know you withdrew unless you tell her. Keep it active, keep your options open."
I close my eyes. That's exactly what Charles Carter would do.