By the time the custody hearing date came, my ex was confident.
Arrogant, actually.
He told mutual friends, “Andrea already made her choice.”
He told his lawyer in the hallway, loud enough for me to hear, “She knows who can give her a better life.”
The worst part is what he told Andrea.
I didn’t know this until later, but it makes my blood boil.
Apparently, he sat her down in that perfect condo, next to Claire’s color-coordinated throw pillows, and said, “Just tell the judge you want to live with us.
You’ll never have to worry again. No more money problems. You’ll have your own space.
Everything you want.”
The night before court, I barely slept.
I kept going over my failures like a highlight reel.
All the times I’d snapped at her after a double shift.
The time I cried in the bathroom because her shoes had holes, and I didn’t get paid for three more days. The Christmas when I could only afford three gifts, and all of them were on sale.
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