The day of the first custody hearing arrived wrapped in fluorescent light and antiseptic air, the kind that clings to old government buildings and reminds you that countless lives have been quietly unraveled in the same rooms long before yours ever entered. Phoebe sat beside me on the wooden bench, her legs too short to reach the floor, her small backpack clutched in her lap, and tucked inside it was her favorite stuffed fox with one ear permanently bent from years of love.
I watched Joel from across the room, his shoulders tight, his gaze fixed on the polished surface of the table in front of him, and for a moment I wondered if he was feeling the same hollow pressure in his chest that I was, or if he had already sealed himself off from the weight of it all.
The judge entered, an older woman with composed eyes and a voice that carried authority without sharpness, and the proceedings began in the measured rhythm of law, where emotions are acknowledged only when they intersect with evidence. Custody schedules were discussed, temporary arrangements proposed, and I focused on breathing evenly while keeping one hand wrapped around Phoebe’s.
Then something shifted.