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A glimpse out the peephole gives
no definitive answers. It’s a guy
in a suit. Detective? If I don’t answer,
he’ll go away, but I’m guessing
he’ll be back. At least my semi-
naked state will give me the excuse
to go into the other room, dispose
of evidence if need be. I crack
the door around the chain. “Yes?”
Kristina Georgia Snow? He slides
a sheaf of papers through the opening.
Consider yourself served. The man
turns on his heel, leaves without
threatening to come inside. Not
a detective. Only a process server.
Relieved but still shaking, I force
myself to look at what’s written on
the papers. Something about Hunter?
I read further. Despite the hefty
legalese, I understand the gist
of the six-page document. Mom
and Scott have filed for custody.
They claim I’m an unfit mother,
cite drug abuse and several instances
of observed “unstable behavior.”
They’re asking to be appointed
legal guardians. Immediately.
If I Want to Fight Them
I’ll have to pass a drug test.
Go to court.
