My fingers trace the edge of the papers. They’re thick. Official.
“So,” she says finally, resting the pen. “We can file these separately or together.”
She turns the folder just enough that I can see the names already typed at the top of two different forms.
My father’s name.
Evan’s name.
“You can start with one today and add the other later,” she continues. “Or we can submit both at the same time. There’s no wrong choice, just what feels safest to you.”
The room goes quiet again.
“Yes,” I say, surprising myself with how steady it sounds. “Both. At the same time.”
The officer nods once, like she expected that answer.
“Okay,” she says. “We’ll start with your father.”
My chest tightens. Then loosens.
She clicks her pen. “I’ll need you to explain why you’re requesting the order. Take your time. I’ll ask follow-up questions if I need clarification, but this is your statement.”
The room feels suddenly very still.
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. My throat closes like it’s trying to protect me from my own words.
Mom shifts closer, her knee pressing gently into mine under the table.
“I…” I try again. Stop. Breathe. “I don’t feel safe.”
The words sound small, but the officer doesn’t flinch.
“Can you tell me what makes you feel unsafe?” she asks.
And so I do.
I talk about being isolated. About my phone being taken. About not being allowed to leave without explanation. About being watched so constantly that I started to forget what privacy felt like. I talk about decisions being made for me while everyone insisted they were helping. About learning that saying no came with consequences that I wasn’t always brave enough to face.
“When did this start?” the officer asks gently.
“Years ago,” I say. “But it got worse when I tried to make my own choices.”
She writes everything down. My words. Not summarizing. Not paraphrasing.
I talk about how fear doesn’t always look like screaming or bruises. Sometimes it looks like compliance. Like shrinking. Like learning how to disappear in plain sight.
No one interrupts me.
No one tells me I’m being dramatic.
No one asks if I’ve tried harder to understand his intentions.
Then she sets that form aside.
“Now Evan,” she says softly.
My stomach twists.
