Ron let out a low whistle through his teeth. “That’s cold.”
I didn’t respond because if I responded, I might say something ugly, and I was trying hard not to become an ugly man. Ron took a slow sip of coffee.
“You know what I did wrong the first time I got divorced?”
I looked at him. Ron wasn’t the kind of guy who volunteered personal stories unless there was a reason. “What?” I asked.
“I waited,” he said simply. “I told myself she’d come around. I told myself if I stayed calm long enough, she’d start respecting me again. You know what she did while I waited?”
I didn’t answer. He tapped a finger on the bench.
“She moved money. She rewrote the story. She got ahead of me. By the time I stopped being patient, I was standing in court with nothing but feelings and a mortgage.”
The words hit like a punch I didn’t see coming. Ron reached into his wallet and pulled out a worn business card, looking like it had been living there for years. He slid it across the bench.
Patty Hargrove. Family Law & Mediation Custody. Fort Wayne, IN.
“I’m not telling you to go to war,” Ron said. “I’m telling you to stop acting like the only tool you’re allowed to use is your pride.”
I stared at the card. “I’m not trying to ruin her.”
Ron’s face softened just a notch. “Then don’t. Just protect your kid. Courts don’t reward good intentions, David. They reward paperwork.”
I put the card in my pocket like it was radioactive. All afternoon, I worked with my hands on autopilot while my brain ran circles. Part of me wanted to ignore it, to prove I was stronger than the mess. Part of me was terrified of what it meant to call a lawyer—like the minute I did it, I’d be crossing a line I couldn’t uncross.
That night, after Hannah finally went down—after the bath, the pajamas, the bottle, the long rocking while she blinked heavy-eyed at the lamp—I sat at the kitchen table with the baby monitor beside my elbow and Lauren’s latest text on the screen.
A photo of the Colosseum at sunset. Rome. Can you believe this place?
No question about Hannah. No apology. Just landmarks.
I looked at that message for a long time, then opened my notes. Dates. Times. Charges. Unanswered texts. It was all there. It was real. And I couldn’t shake the thought that if Lauren came home angry—if she came home and tried to spin this like I was some incompetent old man who couldn’t handle being a dad—then my calm wouldn’t protect Hannah. Evidence would.
I called Patty Hargrove the next morning from the parking lot of the UPS Store because I didn’t want to do it at work, and I didn’t want to do it at home where Hannah could sense my tension.
A receptionist answered. I cleared my throat. “My name’s David Mercer. I… I need to talk to someone about custody. Temporary custody.”
There was a pause, then a warm, professional voice. “Okay, Mr. Mercer. We have an opening at 2:30 today.”
“Today?” I repeated, like I hadn’t expected things to move that fast.
“Is that okay?” she asked.
I swallowed. “Yes.”
The office was in a low brick building that used to be something else—maybe a small insurance place back when people still did business face-to-face. The waiting room smelled like old paper and lemon cleaner. A tiny Christmas wreath hung crooked on the wall even though it wasn’t Christmas anymore, like nobody had the energy to fix it.
Patty Hargrove came out and shook my hand like she’d been doing it her whole life. She was in her late forties, maybe early fifties, with sharp eyes and the kind of calm that doesn’t get rattled by tears.
“David,” she said. “Come on back.”
Her office was neat without being fancy. Two chairs, a filing cabinet, a framed photo of a golden retriever on her desk—like a reminder that not everything in life is an argument. I sat down, hands clasped too tight. Patty looked at me over a legal pad.
“Tell me what’s happening.”
So I did. Fort Wayne Airport. The one-month Europe trip. The one-year-old daughter left behind. The way Lauren rarely asked about Hannah. The bank charges. The screenshots. The urgent care visit. The 3 AM Walmart run. The exhaustion that felt like it had settled into my bones.
I expected Patty to raise an eyebrow. I expected judgment. What I got was simple. She nodded and asked, “Do you have the dates of departure and the return flight?”
“Yes,” I said quickly, pulling them up like a kid with homework. “She left on the third. She’s supposed to come back on the second next month.”
“Any written agreement about childcare while she’s gone?” Patty asked.
“No,” I said. “She just left.”
Patty’s pen tapped once. “Okay. And you’ve been the sole caregiver since then.”
“Yes.”
She leaned back slightly. “David, I want to be clear. The law doesn’t punish people for going on a trip. But it does care about patterns of responsibility, especially with a child this young.”
I exhaled shakily. “I’m not trying to make her look like a monster.”
Patty’s voice stayed even. “Then don’t talk like she’s a monster. Talk like she’s absent. Those are different things in court.”
I swallowed hard. “What can I do?”
Patty flipped her legal pad around so I could see the headings she’d written: Custody. Finances. Communication.
“First,” she said, pointing with her pen. “Temporary custody is a short-term order. Think of it like a legal seatbelt. It keeps the child secure while the court sorts out the bigger questions.”
I nodded slowly.
“Second,” she continued. “If you’re still using a joint account and she’s spending without limits, you need to separate your income. That doesn’t mean you’re stealing. It means you’re making sure Hannah’s basics are covered.”
My throat tightened. “Is that going to make me look petty?”
Patty’s eyes held mine. “It’s not petty to pay for diapers. It’s irresponsible not to.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Patty’s tone softened just a hair.
“The hardest part for men like you is you think staying quiet is noble. Sometimes it is. But silence doesn’t show up on a judge’s desk. Paper does.”
I glanced down at my folder of screenshots. My hands were still trembling a little.
“So, what does the court need?”
“Facts,” Patty said. “Not character attacks. Not speeches. Facts.”
She started listing them, steady as a metronome. “Receipts for childcare, medical visits, supplies. A log of who has cared for Hannah each day. Copies of messages showing efforts to communicate. Bank statements showing withdrawals and charges.”
Then she looked at me and asked the question I’d been avoiding.
“David,” she said carefully. “When your wife comes home, do you believe she’s going to take responsibility, or do you believe she’s going to get angry?”
I pictured Lauren’s face at the airport—that hard shine, the way she said “punish” like she was already preparing a story where she was the victim. I didn’t answer right away.
Finally, I said, “I think she’s going to be furious that I didn’t just wait.”
Patty nodded like she’d heard that a thousand times. “Then we prepare for that. Quietly. Legally.”
My mouth went dry. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Patty said, “we file for temporary custody before she comes back. It means we stop letting her set the terms. It means you keep your communication short, polite, and documented. And it means if she shows up and tries to force her way into a situation that isn’t safe or stable…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.
I stared at the legal pad, my vision blurring for a second—not from tears, just the weight of it. I thought of Hannah asleep in her crib. I thought of her small, warm body, the way she calmed the second she felt my hand on her back. I thought of how she trusted me without knowing anything about bank accounts or court orders.
My voice came out rough. “I never thought I’d be doing this.”
Patty’s gaze didn’t waver. “Most decent people don’t, David. That’s why they lose.”
When I left Patty’s office, the sky was the color of dirty snow. My truck smelled like stale coffee and baby wipes. I sat behind the steering wheel for a full minute, staring at the business card on my passenger seat. Then I opened my phone and looked at Lauren’s last message again.
Rome. Can you believe this place?
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I typed: Hannah’s doing okay. She had a fever last week. I took her to urgent care. Please call when you can.
Then I deleted everything except one line.
Hannah’s asleep. Hope you’re safe.
Short. Polite. Documented.
And as I started the engine, one thought settled in my gut with a strange, steady calm. I wasn’t building a case to hurt my wife. I was building a wall around my daughter.
After that meeting with Patty, my life turned into a series of quiet, unglamorous moves—like a man fixing a roof before the storm hits, knowing nobody will clap when the house stays dry. I didn’t feel heroic. I felt tired.
The next day, I woke up to Hannah whimpering through the baby monitor—that soft crackle followed by her little voice, half cry, half complaint. The room smelled like baby lotion and the faint sourness of formula that had dried on my sleeve overnight. I scooped her up, kissed her warm forehead, and whispered, “We’re okay. We’re okay.”
But my hands were already thinking in lists: Diapers. Daycare. Paperwork. Bank accounts. Work orders. Receipts.
I started small because small was all I could handle. I went to the credit union on my lunch break—the one I’d driven past a thousand times without ever really seeing it. The lobby smelled like carpet shampoo and peppermint from a bowl of candy on the counter. A teller with reading glasses perched on her nose smiled like she recognized the look on my face.
