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I introduce my mother to the court evaluator.
“So, you’re the one who decides whether Isaac stays with his father or goes with his mom?” Mother asks, and my heart skips a bit.
The court evaluator smiles. The first time I’ve ever seen her smile. “Not quite, but my report does have a lot to do with it.”
“Good, because I have a lot to tell you,” Mother says.
The court evaluator looks like she’s won the lottery. “I’d be happy to listen.”
“Come with me to the kitchen. I’m cooking dinner. We’ll chat as I finish up,” Mom says and propels the other woman to the kitchen.
My instinct is to follow them to the kitchen. I must make my mother understand that anything she says now could result in my son being taken away from me. An arm touches me.
“Sit down,” Mila says. “It’s going to be okay.”
“What if she says something…”
Mila shakes her head. “She won’t. Trust her. She knows you’re an awesome dad, and in the last couple of days, she’s seen what kind of family man you are.”
I sink into the couch, but my mind won’t rest. Images of Isaac being carried away from home screaming and calling for me, run through my mind.
“I can’t wait for this to be over and we can go on with the rest of our lives,” I tell Mila.
She keeps her hand in mine. Our fingers are interlaced, and she squeezes to let me know she understands. We sit quietly waiting. Muted voices waft from the kitchen. There’s no point in pretending to converse. It’s beyond my capabilities to talk and think at the same time.
Mila instinctively understands this.
The court evaluator emerges moments later. Her expression is stern as usual. She glances at us. “Your mother sent me to get Isaac for dinner.”
She doesn’t wait for our response.
At my mother’s insistence, she joins us for dinner. Mila and I are quiet. Mother dominates the conversation, regaling the court evaluator with tales of growing up in another era. The chicken, which had been so delicious earlier, now tastes like a piece of wood.
My throat seems to have closed up, and I can’t bring myself to eat some more.
My mom, ever eagle eyes, is quick to notice. “I thought you liked the chicken?”
I fake a smile. “I do.” I attack it with renewed vigor. I can’t wait for the evening to end.
Chapter 32
Mila
Mrs. Bennet and I have fallen into a routine. After the boys leave for work and school respectively, we clean up. She vacuums the carpets while I wash the dishes. Then we fold the laundry as I put it away. After the household chores, we part ways. I go to work while she gets ready for her day.
It is while we’re folding the laundry that she asks about my work.
“Brad tells me that you’re a very gifted artist,” she says. “I’d like to see your work sometime.”
That takes me by surprise. Pleasure swirls through me. “I’d be happy to show you. I’m working on a few portraits at the moment. You may recognize the subjects.”
Her eyes widen and twinkle. “How about now? Unless you don’t—?”
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “I can show you.”
“I’ll finish this later,” she says.
We chat easily as we leave the house and walk next door. In the studio, I fling the door open and hold the door for her to enter first.
“Oh, wow!” she exclaims. “The light here is unbelievable.”
I grin. Everyone who enters the studio reacts the same way. I remove the white cloths that cover my two works in progress and stand to the side so that she can see. Butterflies fill my stomach. My work is the most sensitive part of me. A few careless words can paralyze me for weeks.
She steps closer. Her mouth falls open. She looks from the painting to me as if she can’t quite believe her eyes.
“I don’t know what to say,” she murmurs. “I knew you must be good because Brad said so, but this, this is genius.”
I can tell from her voice that she means every word. “Thank you.”
“They both look as if they’ll step out of the canvas at any moment,” she says, her voice still filled with awe.
I chuckle at that. That’s what I strive for when I do portraits—to capture the essence of a person so that they seem to be alive. It’s the highest compliment anyone can pay me. The two works in progress are for the two men in my life. Brad and Isaac. This is a new thing for me as I never do portraits of my loved ones.
Mrs. Bennet keeps staring at the portraits, and when she does look at me, it’s with new respect. She says more nice things about my work and then walks to the window where I join her. The view from the window is of the pool next door. A blush covers my face as a memory comes to mind. I had stood in this very spot and watched Brad cleaning the pool. It seems so long ago.
