I drove home from the law office with the envelope sitting on the passenger seat like a live wire. The snow on Cedar Avenue was fresh, the kind that muffles sound and makes the world feel smaller, quieter, honest. Inside my coat pocket, my hands shook—not from grief, but from something sharper.
Instinct. At home, I locked the door, closed the blinds, and sat at the kitchen table James used to do homework on. The envelope felt impossibly light for something that had made Sophia’s jaw tighten and her perfume go sour.
I broke the seal. Inside: three pages. His handwriting—steady, careful, the way he wrote when things mattered.
Mom,
If you are reading this, something has happened, and I am sorry you are alone with it. Don’t trust appearances. Don’t trust urgency.
And don’t let Lucas out of your sight. There are things you need to know. My breath caught.
Sophia and I have been struggling. Not fighting—worse. She wants things I cannot give her.
I found debt, accounts I never authorized, messages I wish I’d never read. I stayed for Lucas. Then I learned something else—Lucas is not safe if anything happens to me.
The room tilted. A sound escaped me—small, sharp. I amended my will quietly.
You now control everything until Lucas turns eighteen. I know what this will do to her. But the truth is this: you are the only person I trust not to use my son as currency.
If she pressures you, threatens you, or tries to take him—call Bennett. He knows everything. And Mom?
Don’t let her charm you. Not again. Love you,
J. By the time I finished, tears had blurred the page. Not grief tears. Not anger tears.
Something older—recognition. The kind of clarity that comes only when the last illusion dies. I folded the letter, placed it back in its envelope, and set it beside my cooling tea.
And then—right on cue—my phone lit up. SOPHIA:
We should meet tonight. Urgent.
It’s about custody. Custody. Of course.
Two minutes later, another message:
SOPHIA:
We both know Lucas belongs with me. Let’s not make this messy. And then:
SOPHIA:
James would want stability.
I stared at the last message for a long moment. It was cold. Too cold.
The kind of sentence you only write when you think power is on your side. I didn’t respond. That evening, while the wind scratched against the window, the doorbell rang.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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