He’d always been two people, the charming one the world saw and the one I’d lived with behind closed doors. The weeks leading up to the hearing were filled with stress and questions. Zayden started having trouble sleeping.
He clung to me more, asked strange questions about courts and judges. One night, he crawled into bed with me and whispered, What if someone lies and people believe them? I turned to face him and stroked his hair. Then we tell the truth, I said.
That’s what we do, even when it’s hard. He nodded, but he didn’t say anything else. I didn’t know it then, but he was already carrying the weight of what Damien had said to him.
He was already preparing to tell the truth when it mattered most. The morning of the court date, he put on the gray jacket Evelyn had ironed the night before. He asked me if he could take the old phone I’d given him.
I said yes without thinking much about it. He’d been using it to play music and little games. I never imagined that phone would be the key to everything.
In that courtroom, with Damien’s lies echoing through the air and the judge staring down at us like he was weighing the future on a scale, I sat there praying, not for the court to believe me, not even for justice. I prayed for my son to feel safe enough to speak his truth. And somehow, even at eight years old, he did more than speak it.
He proved it. The day Damien’s lawyer served me with the custody papers, I dropped them in the kitchen sink and threw up. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely grip the edge of the counter.
Zayden was at school. I had four hours to pull myself together before picking him up. Four hours to figure out how I was going to survive another war with the man I had barely escaped.
I called my mom first. She came over with chamomile tea and her old file folder full of legal notes from when she went through her own divorce. She sat me down, took my hand, and said, this is going to be hard, but it’s not impossible.
You have the truth on your side. And you have Zayden. Zayden.
That’s what terrified me the most. He was only eight. He didn’t understand courtrooms or custody.
He just wanted to play soccer after school and eat chocolate chip waffles on Saturday mornings. I didn’t want to drag him through this, but I didn’t have a choice. At first, Damien was calm.
Too calm. He showed up to pick Zayden up for his weekend visit wearing new clothes and bringing toys I couldn’t afford. He smiled wide, told me he wanted what was best for our son, and then whispered when Zayden wasn’t looking.
You really think they’re going to give him to someone working part-time and living in a shoebox? I didn’t answer. I closed the door and sat on the couch for two hours, staring at the front door like it might not open again. But it did.
Zayden came back quiet. He went straight to his room, didn’t say much. Over the next few weekends, the silence grew.
He stopped talking about what he and Damien did. He flinched when I asked how it went. One night, I heard him crying into his pillow.
I sat at the edge of his bed and asked what was wrong. Is it bad to not want to live with someone if they’re your dad? I froze. No, I said.
It’s not bad to want to feel safe. He rolled over and looked at me. What if he gets mad if I say that? I wanted to tell him not to worry that the judge would listen, that everything would be okay, but I couldn’t lie to him.
I just held his hand and said, no matter what happens, I will never stop fighting for you. Two weeks before the hearing, Zayden started asking questions. What did a judge do? Who got to talk? Would he have to speak? I explained it as gently as I could, telling him the judge just wanted to understand what was best for him.
He nodded like he understood, but he was scared. I could see it in his eyes. Then came the last weekend visit before court.
Damien arrived in his SUV, too early like he was trying to catch us off guard. Zayden didn’t want to go. He clung to my side and said he had a stomachache.
I almost kept him home, but Damien stood there on the porch, arms crossed, staring at me like he dared me to say no. Zayden walked out slowly. I watched from the window.
They didn’t know I could see them. Damien leaned down, his face inches from Zayden’s, and spoke low and fast. Zayden didn’t say a word.
He just got into the car. When he came back Sunday night, he wasn’t the same. He was quiet, withdrawn, too calm for an eight-year-old.
He didn’t eat dinner. He just sat on the floor in the living room, messing with that old phone I gave him. I asked if everything was okay.
He nodded, said he was tired, and went to bed early. That was the night before court. I didn’t sleep.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering what Damien had said to him, wondering if he had threatened him. I had no proof. Just a feeling.
A sick one. I couldn’t shake. The next morning, Zayden put on his jacket and asked for the phone again.
I asked him why. He shrugged and said, I might want to listen to music. We drove to the courthouse in silence.
My hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Zayden sat in the back, staring out the window. I glanced at him through the mirror.
His face was blank, but his fingers were tight around that phone. When we walked into the courtroom, Damien was already seated with his lawyer. He turned and smiled at me like we were old friends.
My stomach tightened. The judge entered. The bailiff called the room to order.
Papers shuffled. Lawyers murmured. And then Damien stood up and said it.
Zayden told me he wants to live with me. He said he doesn’t feel safe with his mother. I stopped breathing.
My hands curled into fists in my lap. I didn’t dare look at Zayden. Then the judge turned to my son and asked him, is that true? Zayden stood up, slowly, quietly.
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out that old phone, and held it out. May I play the recording from last night? The judge looked at Zayden, caught off guard by the request. He tilted his head slightly, lowering his reading glasses to see the phone in Zayden’s small hand.
What is this recording, son? he asked. Zayden didn’t stutter. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady.
It’s from last night. My dad said something, and I didn’t know if anyone would believe me, so I recorded it. The courtroom was still.
Even Damien stopped whispering to his lawyer. He leaned forward, staring at the phone like it had betrayed him. The judge gave a short nod.
Bring the phone here. Zayden walked across the room without looking at anyone. The sound of his sneakers brushing the floor echoed off the walls.
He placed the phone gently on the judge’s desk, then returned to his seat beside me. His shoulders were tense, and his eyes didn’t leave the floor. I reached out, resting my hand lightly over his.
He didn’t look up, but he squeezed my fingers. Judge pressed play. There was static at first, then Damien’s voice, sharp and cold, filled the room.