“New account?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, my voice low. “Just for my paycheck.”
She nodded like she didn’t need the story. “We can do that.”
Fifteen minutes later, I had routing numbers on a little slip of paper and a strange feeling in my stomach—half relief, half guilt. Like I was cheating on something, even though all I was doing was making sure my daughter didn’t end up short on formula because someone wanted gelato in Rome.
That night, after Hannah fell asleep, I sat at the kitchen table with the baby monitor beside my elbow and started sorting receipts into piles. The paper smelled dusty and sharp, like ink and old wallets.
Urgent care. Walmart. Gas. Baby Tylenol. Diapers. Wipes.
I opened a cheap spiral notebook and wrote it all down in block letters, the way Patty had told me. Date. Time. What happened. Cost. Who was present.
It felt cold, writing my marriage like a report. But every time I hesitated, I looked toward Hannah’s room and remembered how she’d cried for her mother in the first week. Not the word “Mom”—not yet. Just that searching sound babies make when they expect someone to show up.
So I kept writing.
Lauren kept sending messages like nothing was wrong. A photo of a cobblestone street: I could live here forever. A selfie with her friends, cheeks flushed: This is healing.
At 1 AM one night, while I was standing barefoot in the kitchen warming a bottle, my phone buzzed with a picture of the Eiffel Tower lit up like a birthday candle. Caption: Self-care is not selfish.
I stood there staring at it while the bottle warmer hummed and Hannah cried down the hall.
“I swear to God,” I muttered to nobody, “if you ever say that out loud in this house again…”
Then I stopped myself. Anger was easy. I could drown in anger. What I needed was control.
The next week, I joined a Facebook group called “Fort Wayne Dads.” It felt ridiculous, like admitting defeat. But I’d learned something over the last two weeks: Pride doesn’t burp a baby.
The group was mostly pictures of kids at parks and dads asking questions they were embarrassed to ask out loud. How do you get a toddler to eat anything that isn’t crackers? Best diaper rash cream? Any daycares with openings?
I posted once, late at night, my thumb hovering over the screen like it weighed a hundred pounds.
Wife out of town. Solo with a one-year-old. Any tips for sleep?
Within minutes, replies came in from men I’d never met. White noise. Keep the room cool. Don’t skip the bedtime routine. Same order every night. Hang in there, brother. It gets easier. One guy wrote: You’re not failing. You’re learning.
I sat back in my chair and let that sink in. The house was quiet except for the furnace ticking and the baby monitor’s soft static. For the first time in days, I didn’t feel completely alone.
I started learning other things, too—like how to cook something other than scrambled eggs without setting off the smoke alarm. I watched a YouTube video on meatloaf at midnight, with the sound down low, Hannah asleep, the phone screen glowing blue in my face. The guy in the video talked like it was easy. “It’s just ground beef, breadcrumbs, ketchup.”
I snorted softly. “I used to think I was Superman,” I whispered to myself. “And now I’m a Super Dad who celebrates not burning dinner.”
It was a dark kind of funny, but it kept me from cracking.
Work, though, didn’t care that I was becoming a dad in real-time. On a Wednesday afternoon, I was halfway through replacing a water heater when my phone rang. Daycare—one of the few places that had finally agreed to take Hannah part-time—was on the line.
“Mr. Mercer,” the woman said. “Hannah’s running a temperature. You need to pick her up.”
I glanced at the half-drained tank, tools spread on the floor, the tenant watching me like I was performing surgery.
“I’m in the middle of something,” I said, then hated myself for saying it.
“She needs you,” the woman said, firm but not cruel.
“I’m on my way,” I said.
I drove like my heart was outside my body. The world looked too sharp—gray sky, bare trees, brake lights glowing red like warnings. When I got there, Hannah was flushed and clingy, her eyes watery. The second she saw me, she reached out both arms with that desperate little grab that makes a man feel like the most important thing on earth. I scooped her up and whispered, “Daddy’s here,” like it was a promise I could never break.
I was back at Maple Grove an hour later, with Hannah’s fever meds in my pocket and a deadline in my face. Vince was waiting for me in the hallway, arms crossed.
“Again?” he said.
“I didn’t have a choice,” I answered, trying to keep my voice level.
Vince looked past me at Hannah, then back at me. “David, I’ve got tenants screaming, vendors waiting. You can’t keep disappearing.”
“Then tell me what you want me to do,” I snapped before I could stop it. “Leave her in the lobby with a juice box and a prayer?”
His jaw tightened. For a second, I thought I’d just lost my job right there under the fluorescent lights. Then Vince exhaled, long and hard.
“Get it together,” he said, quieter. “I’m not heartless. But I can’t run this place with one hand.”
I nodded, my throat tight. “I’m trying.”
That night, when the house was finally still, I sent Patty a photo of my notebook pages and a folder of bank screenshots. My hands shook from exhaustion as I typed. I felt like I was turning in evidence against my own life.
Patty called me the next morning. Her voice was calm, but there was steel underneath it.
“David, I filed the motion for temporary custody,” she said. “We should have an order soon. Keep doing exactly what you’re doing. Short texts. Keep your log. No drama.”
I swallowed. “What about the house?”
“Not yet,” she said. “Don’t do anything that looks impulsive. Wait until we have the temporary order in hand.”
I stared at the wall, listening to Hannah babble on her playmat. “Lauren comes back soon,” I said.
“Yes,” Patty replied. “And that’s why you need to stay steady. If she comes home angry, let her be angry. You be prepared.”
As if on cue, my phone buzzed with a message from Lauren. A picture of her feet on a beach somewhere. Toes in sand, a wine glass in the frame like a trophy. Caption: Last night. Can’t wait to sleep in my own bed tomorrow.
I felt something twist in my gut—part rage, part relief. Tomorrow.
I looked at Hannah, who was chewing on a rubber giraffe and smiling at nothing.
“Okay,” I whispered, more to myself than to her. “Let’s do this right.”
The custody order showed up the morning Lauren was due to land. Plain white envelope. Court seal. No drama, just paper that weighed more than any argument we’d ever had.
Hannah sat in her high chair, smearing banana across the tray, humming to herself. I stood at the counter and read the first page twice because my eyes didn’t trust what they saw.
Temporary Custody Granted.
Primary Placement with Father.
Exclusive Use of the Residence for the Child’s Stability Pending Hearing.
My hands went cold, then they started shaking. I called Patty.
“It’s here,” I said.
“Good,” she replied. “Stay calm. Don’t argue on the porch. If she escalates, you call non-emergency. Let the paper do the talking.”
“What about the locks?”
“With that order, yes,” Patty said. “Today. And keep it clean. No taunting.”
I hung up and looked at Hannah’s sticky face. “Okay,” I whispered. “Seatbelt on.”
By noon, the deadbolt was changed. Drill whirring. Metal clicking into place. Two new keys in my palm that felt heavier than they should. I set the manila folder on the kitchen table. Court order. On top, my log. Behind it, receipts clipped neat. Not a weapon, just a fire extinguisher.
All afternoon, the house felt too quiet. The furnace kicked on. The baby monitor hissed. Hannah babbled to her stuffed bear like she was giving it a sermon.
At 6:12 PM, headlights washed across the living room wall. A rideshare pulled into the drive. Trunk popped. Then I heard it—the hard clatter of suitcase wheels on old porch boards.
I lifted Hannah onto my hip and stood where I could see the door glass. Lauren stepped up like she expected applause. Long coat, scarf, face still pink from travel. She slid our old key into the new deadbolt.
Scrape. Nothing.
She tried again, harder. Her smile faded, then vanished. Then she saw me through the glass.
“David!” she called, bright with confusion. “Why isn’t it working?”
I didn’t open the door. I kept the chain on. Lauren’s eyes flicked to the chain. Her mouth opened.
“Are you serious?”
“Lauren,” I said, calm and tired. “You can’t walk back in like nothing happened.”
She laughed once, sharp. “Nothing happened! I went on a trip. You knew.”
“I knew you were leaving,” I said. “I didn’t know you’d leave our daughter like she was luggage.”
Hannah stirred at the sound of Lauren’s voice. She blinked, then tucked her face against my shoulder. Lauren’s smile cracked.
“Open the door.”
“Read this,” I said. I slid the folder up against the glass so she could see the court seal and the date.
Her eyes dropped. Her hand froze on the knob. “What is that?” she whispered.
“Paper,” I said. “The kind that doesn’t care about excuses.”
Lauren leaned in, reading through the window like she could bully the words into changing. Her lips moved. Her brows pulled tight. Then the blood drained out of her face.
“No,” she breathed. She scanned again, faster. Her breathing got loud enough that I could hear it. “No, no,” her voice cracked. “This can’t be happening.”
Across the walkway, Mrs. Delaney paused mid-step, eyes wide like she’d just heard a crash. Lauren snapped her head up at me.
“You went to court?”
“I went to protect Hannah,” I said.
“You’re punishing me!”
“I’m not your dad,” I said. “I’m Hannah’s.”
Lauren’s voice climbed. “I needed a break! I FaceTime’d!”
“You sent selfies,” I replied. “You didn’t ask about her fever until after urgent care.”
Her face twitched like she was searching for the right mask. “David, I didn’t realize it was that hard,” she said, suddenly soft. “I’m sorry, okay? Just let me in. Let me hold her.”
For half a second, I wanted to. Not for Lauren, but for the picture of a family I’d been clinging to. Then I remembered 3 AM at Walmart and Hannah crying into my shirt.
