“—about fucking time?—”
“—if he comes near those kids again?—”
“—team lawyer says the Internal Affairs investigation?—”
Their protectiveness still amazes me. These men who barely knew me six months ago, rallying around my family like we’ve always been part of their circle.
The courthouse lobby is bustling with the usual mix of lawyers, defendants, and families dealing with their own legal dramas. For a moment, we’re just another group of people leaving court, blending into the crowd of human conflict and resolution.
“So what happens now?” I ask Jessica as we reach the parking garage.
“Now you go home and live your life,” she says simply. “The protective order is in effect immediately. Evan has to arrange supervised visitation through the court system, which will take at least a week or two to set up. You have sole custody, which means you make all the decisions about the kids’ lives without having to consult him or get his permission.”
The freedom of that concept is so foreign I can’t quite grasp it. No more arguing about school activities or medical appointments. No more having to justify my parenting decisions to someone who uses them as weapons.
“And if he violates the order?” Dex asks, all business.
“Immediate arrest. No questions asked.” Jessica’s satisfaction is evident. “Judge Harris made that very clear.”
We reach our cars, and suddenly I don’t want to separate from this group of people who’ve helped make today possible. Going home means facing the kids, explaining what happened, starting the process of helping them understand that their world has fundamentally changed.
“Hey,” Dex says, reading my hesitation. “Want me to follow you? Help you talk to the kids?”
The offer is exactly what I need to hear. “Yes. Please.”
“I’ll check in tomorrow,” Jessica promises. “The paperwork will be filed by end of day, and I’ll send you copies of everything. For now, just... breathe. You did it, Golda. You actually did it.”
The drive feels surreal, like I’m floating slightly above reality. Every red light, every turn, every familiar landmark looks the same as it did this morning, but everything has changed. The kids I left at Elliot’s house this morning are the same kids I’m about to pick up, but legally, officially, finally, they’re safe.
Elliot’s house is in chaos when we arrive, which is apparently normal for a Saturday afternoon. She meets us at the door with paint-covered hands and an apologetic smile.
“Sorry—art project emergency. Blythe decided the kitchen table needed to be ‘enhanced’ with finger paints, and Tyson’s been helping me minimize the damage.”
Through the doorway, I can see my son carefully cleaning paint off chair legs while Blythe explains something elaborate about color theory and artistic expression.
“How did it go?” Elliot asks quietly, studying my face.
“We won. Everything. Sole custody, protective order, the whole thing.”
Her face lights up with relief and joy. “Oh, thank god. How are you feeling?”
“Terrified,” I admit. “Now I have to explain it to them.”
“They’re going to be fine,” she assures me. “Kids are more resilient than we give them credit for.”
“Mom!” Blythe’s voice carries from the kitchen, followed by the sound of running feet. She crashes into my legs with her usual enthusiasm, leaving small paint handprints on my court dress. “Did you win? Did the judge say we don’t have to be scared anymore?”
Trust her to cut straight to the heart of the matter.
“Yes, baby,” I tell her, kneeling down to her level. “The judge said you don’t have to be scared anymore.”
Her smile is brilliant, uncomplicated by the adult understanding of what this all means. “Good. Can we get ice cream to celebrate?”
“Definitely ice cream,” I promise.
Tyson appears more cautiously, his expression serious as always. “What exactly did the judge say?” he asks, because of course he wants the details.
“Why don’t we go home and talk about it there?” I suggest. “All of us together.”
