Ethan was eight, upstairs doing homework. Daniel avoided saying his name, calling him “our son” instead. The distance felt deliberate.
My chest tightened, but I didn’t cry. I’d learned that emotion irritated Daniel. Calm unsettled him.
So I nodded.
A week later, my lawyer, Margaret Collins, froze mid-note when I repeated Daniel’s demands.
“This isn’t reasonable,” she said. “You’re entitled to half. And custody isn’t something someone just gives away.”
“I understand,” I replied. “But I agree.”
She searched my face. “Why?”
Because the real battle had already been fought—Daniel just didn’t know it yet.
At mediation, I didn’t argue. I signed where I was told. Daniel looked relieved, already picturing his new life. Friends were alarmed. My sister cried. Even Margaret tried once more.
“There has to be a reason,” she said.
“There is,” I answered.
The final hearing was brief. The judge paused, looking at me.
“Do you understand what you’re giving up?”
“Yes.”
Daniel smiled—wide, satisfied.
