I hang up before she can object, rush inside, and kneel before my son.
“Mom,” Tyson says, relief flooding his pale face. “I threw up in math. Twice.”
“I heard, buddy.” I press my lips to his forehead—warm but not alarmingly so. “Let’s get you home.”
“Is Dad mad that I’m sick?” he asks as I gather his backpack.
The question—so telling in its assumption that his illness would be an inconvenience, a disruption deserving anger—hardens my resolve.
“No one’s mad,” I assure him. “And you know what? I think this calls for couch time with ginger ale and your choice of movie.”
His small smile is worth every complication.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Jessica asks as I settle Tyson on the small couch in the corner of the conference room. “Bringing a sick child to a divorce mediation isn’t exactly conventional.”
“Neither is being a single parent with no backup,” I reply, making sure he has his tablet, crackers, and a small trash can within reach.
Her expression softens briefly before returning to professional neutrality. “Let me know if he needs anything.”
Ten minutes later, the door opens. Evan’s face registers first surprise at seeing me, then shock at spotting Tyson, then the smooth mask of reasonableness he wears for public consumption.
“How thoughtful of you to join us,” he says, voice dripping with condescension.
“Our son has a stomach virus,” I reply, taking my seat beside Jessica. “How are we progressing?”
Evan’s eyes narrow slightly—the only tell that he’s irritated by my composure. He prefers me flustered and apologetic. It’s easier for him to control me that way.
“We were just discussing the custody schedule,” Jessica says, sliding papers toward me. “Mr. Adler has agreed to the arrangement we proposed, with some modifications to the holiday calendar.”
I skim the document, alert for traps. The core is intact, primary physical custody with me, alternating weekends with Evan, provisions for his irregular work schedule. The standard visitation template, with none of the excessive oversight or restrictions he’d initially demanded.
It seems... reasonable. Too reasonable.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, looking directly at Evan.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “No catch, Golda. Just what’s best for our children.”
Translation: he’s found a different angle. Something that doesn’t appear in these papers.
“And the financial settlement?”
Jessica hands me another document. “As discussed. The house sells, proceeds split. You keep your retirement account, he keeps his pension. Child support per the state calculator based on your respective incomes.”
Again, surprisingly straightforward. I’d been prepared for a fight over every penny, every asset.
“I just want this over with,” Evan says, his voice taking on that wounded tone he’s perfected. “For the kids’ sake.”
The lawyer in the expensive suit nods approvingly. Jessica looks cautiously optimistic.
But I know Evan too well.
As we sign the papers my hands are steady despite everything, but I’m cataloging the possibilities. He might be planning to immediately petition for a modification. Or to make the custody exchanges so difficult I’d eventually relent to his preferences. Or to use his position to monitor me, to find some pretext for claiming I’m an unfit mother.
Whatever it is, I’ll face it when it comes. For now, my signature on these papers is one step closer to freedom.
“I’ll file these with the court tomorrow,” Jessica says, gathering the documents. “With the judge’s approval, which I anticipate receiving promptly, your divorce will be final within thirty days.”
Thirty days. After a year of separation, of untangling finances and negotiating schedules and fielding Evan’s alternating tacticsof charm and intimidation, thirty more days seems both eternal and instantaneous.
