“Claire said that?” I asked.
Complete.
I went to bed that night and stared at the ceiling for hours, replaying every time I’d said, “We can’t afford that.” Every “maybe later.” Every empty fridge day before payday.
A few weeks later, my ex texted me.
Since Andrea’s spending more time here anyway, it might make sense to switch primary custody. Less back and forth.
More stability.
My hands shook.
I showed the message to my sister, and she replied, “He smells blood in the water.”
I got a lawyer I could barely afford. Small office over a nail salon, coffee stain on his tie, but he listened.
“At 12,” he said, “the judge will ask what Andrea wants. Her opinion will matter.
A lot.” Then he added, “Your ex has money. And a very public, very polished wife. We can’t pretend that doesn’t help him.”
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