And her lawyer hammers on biology, on the mother’s rights,on the idea that no matter what mistakes Jessica made, she deserves a second chance with her own child.
By noon, it's clear we're not reaching an agreement.
"I recommend we proceed to trial," the mediator says finally. "March twenty-fourth, 9 a.m. Judge Morrison presiding."
Just over two weeks away. Sixteen days to prepare for the rest of our lives.
We gather our things in tense silence, and as we're leaving, Jessica's lawyer stops us in the hallway.
"My client is willing to compromise. Weekend visitation to start, working up to shared custody. It would save everyone the trauma of a trial."
"No," I say before Ms. Chen can respond. "Harper's not going anywhere near her until a judge tells me I have to allow it."
"Mr. West?—"
"She showed up at my house three weeks ago, high out of her mind, making threats. Now she's suddenly sober and reformed? I don't believe it. And I'm not risking my daughter's safety on Jessica's promises."
"Then we'll see you in court."
He walks away, and I'm left standing here shaking with rage and fear.
"You did well in there," Ms. Chen says. “You stayed calm and didn’t engage. But Tyler, they have a case. The rehabilitation documents, the postpartum depression angle, and the biological mother's rights. It's not as clear-cut as we'd like."
"What are our odds now?"
"Still sixty-forty. Maybe fifty-five-forty-five." She looks apologetic. "I'm sorry. I wish I could guarantee you a win. But Judge Morrison is fair. She'll look at what's best for Harper. That's what we have to focus on."
Nora and I leave the courthouse feeling devastated. Sixteen more days of this limbo, of not knowing if Harper stays with us or gets ripped away.
Sixteen more days of hell.
"I have a game tonight," I say as we're driving home. "7 p.m. I can't miss it."
"You should be with Harper?—"
"Contract obligation. And honestly?" I glance at her. "I need to hit something. Legally. On the ice. Before I do something stupid."
That evening, I show up to the arena wound so tight I'm surprised I don't snap. The guys can tell something's wrong. I'm never this quiet before games, never this tense.
"You good?" Danny asks in the locker room.
"Fine."
"You're not fine. You look like you want to murder someone."
"I do. But it has to be legal. So I'm going to take it out on Toronto instead."
The game starts, and I'm playing angrily. Taking hits harder than necessary, finishing checks with more force than required, my play teetering on the edge of dirty without quite crossing the line.
During the first period, I'm in the corner battling for the puck when Toronto's defenseman gives me a shove. I shove back harder, and suddenly we're face-to-face, chirping at each other through our cages.
The ref separates us before it escalates, but I'm already keyed up, already looking for the next hit.
In the second period, Danny feeds me a perfect pass in the slot, and I one-time it top shelf. The lamp lights up, and I’m already turning toward the family section, pointing at where Nora and Harper are sitting. She was still barred from this building not that long ago. Now she’s back, and I look for her face every single shift.
I want them to see it. I want them to know I'm playing for them, that the only thing keeping me upright tonight is the two of them in that section, that everything I'm doing on this ice is for the family I might lose.
In the third period, I set up Rodriguez with a beautiful cross-ice pass for another goal, and then score myself on a breakaway. Both times, I point at the family section. Both times, I look for Nora's face.