She made no scene. She simply took out her small notebook later and wrote down the date, the time, the exact wording.
Colleen had taught her through those letters: if you cannot win in volume, win in detail.
That same week, Dorothy met with the court-appointed guardian ad litem, a measured woman named Rebecca Snow who represented only one thing: the children’s best interests.
Rebecca visited the hotel room first. Dorothy had worried about that. A hotel room was no place to build a case for custody of triplets. But Dorothy cleaned it until it looked like an operating room, lined up sterilized bottles, stacked diaper supplies by size, and placed Colleen’s letters back in the purse where she kept them close but private.
Rebecca watched Dorothy with the babies for two hours.
Dorothy did not perform. She simply did what she always did—knew which cry belonged to Margot, which bottle Theodore preferred warm rather than merely heated, how Bridget settled fastest when held against a heartbeat instead of bounced.
At one point Rebecca asked, “How are you managing sleep?”
Dorothy replied, “Poorly. But effectively.”
Rebecca’s mouth twitched.
Then the guardian visited Birchwood Lane.