“Mom?” Tyson walks into the kitchen, homework sheet in hand. “Can you help me with this math problem?”
I try to arrange my face into something resembling normal, but I can see from his expression that I’m failing spectacularly. “Of course, honey. Just give me one second.”
I fold the papers quickly, shoving them back into the envelope, but Tyson’s too perceptive not to notice the legal letterhead.
“Is that from Dad’s lawyer?” he asks quietly.
“Just some paperwork we need to sort out,” I say, forcing a smile. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
But I can see him filing the information away, the way he always does when adults try to shield him from grown-up problems. He’s learned to read between the lines, to prepare for disappointments before they’re officially announced.
After I help him with his math and get both kids settled for the evening, I call Jessica.
“Custody modification petition,” I say the moment she answers. “Mediation on Thursday.”
“What’s he asking for?”
I read her the key sections, my voice getting tighter with each demand. When I finish, there’s a long silence.
“Every weekend?” she says finally. “That’s aggressive. What’s his stated reason?”
“The kids must have mentioned the team barbecue during their last phone call. Being around professional athletes, participating in organized sports.” I can practically hear Evan’s voice shaping the narrative. “He’s painting it like I’m prioritizing my social life over their stability.”
“Mediation is different from court,” Jessica reminds me. “The mediator’s job is to find reasonable solutions, not to rule on emergency situations. This kind of blanket request—taking away all weekend time—isn’t going to look reasonable.”
“What if they agree with him? What if they think hockey is too much, too risky?”
“Then we present evidence of how much the children have benefited from these activities. Better grades, increased confidence, healthy social development. We make it clear that he’s trying to eliminate something positive from their lives.”
After we hang up, I sit in my quiet kitchen and try not to think about explaining to Tyson that there’s no more hockey, watching Blythe’s confusion when Saturday mornings become empty, losing the community that’s become our second family.
The thought makes me physically sick.
Wednesday drags by in a haze of anxiety. I try to work on the pharmaceutical script that’s due Friday, but the words swim on the page. Every few minutes, my brain helpfully supplies another worst-case scenario about Thursday’s mediation.
At 2 PM, my phone rings from an number with a Seattle area code.
“Ms. Adler? This is Luca Moretti. I play goalie for the Puckaneers.”
Luca. The quiet one who makes incredible cakes and speaks three languages. Why is he calling me?
“Hi,” I manage. “Is everything okay?”
“Elliot told me about your situation. The custody mediation tomorrow.”
Of course Elliot told people. Normally that would embarrass me, but right now I’m too scared to care about privacy.
“She shouldn’t have bothered you with?—”
“Ms. Adler, may I ask—your ex-husband is a police officer, correct? Detective Evan Adler?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I have some information that might be useful. Can we meet somewhere? Somewhere private?”
I feel my pulse kick up. “What kind of information?”
“The kind that might give you some insurance, just in case you need it.”
