I remember staring at that word so long the letters seemed to detach from meaning. Mark had not called Lily in five days. He had missed her school music program the week before without sending even a text. He had not asked what size shoes she wore now, whether she had outgrown her coat, whether she still woke once a week from bad dreams about tornadoes. Yet here, in cool legal language, he was a model of parental steadiness and I was a risk.
I called my attorney and cried so hard I could barely get the words out.
Margaret Lewis had been recommended by a woman from my church whose brother had gone through a terrible custody fight years earlier. She was in her sixties, with silver hair always swept into a twist, soft cardigans over crisp blouses, and a voice gentle enough to make people underestimate how sharp she was. When we first met, I worried that Mark’s lawyer would devour her. By our second meeting, I realized Margaret had spent decades letting louder people mistake restraint for weakness.