You testify next.
Your mouth goes dry. Your palms stay cold. But the words come. The kitchen light. The tomato sauce spot near the stove. The years of apologies curdling into explanations. The fear of letting Michael know. The text at 1:34 a.m. The breakfast table. The protective order. You do not embellish because reality needs no decoration.
The judge extends the order.
Temporary custody remains with you until the family court review. Daniel is permitted supervised visitation only. Anger management and a batterer intervention program are ordered if he wants expanded contact. His attorney tries to object. The judge’s expression shuts that down before the words finish leaving his mouth.
Outside the courthouse, Daniel calls your name.
You turn because old habits die slowly.
He stands on the steps holding himself like a man trying not to unravel in public. For a split second you see the version of him you once loved, the one who fixed your starter motor in the rain, who brought soup when you had the flu, who once cried when Emily was born. Then he opens his mouth and destroys that ghost himself.
