Page 125 of At First Flight
I want to scream.
Because I’ve seen him sit up all night with a sick child curled against his chest. I’ve seen him kiss scraped knees and burn his fingers making pancakes shaped like dinosaurs. I’ve seen him bemorethan enough.
I clench my hands in my lap. Don’t move. Don’t blink. Just wait.
When it’s Dean’s turn to speak, he rises slowly. His lawyer doesn’t need to prompt him. He’s not a man who performs. He’s a man who tells the truth.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” he says quietly. “But that doesn’t make me less of a father.”
His voice is low and steady. There’s a rawness to it like he’s pulled every word from deep inside. “I’m not perfect. God knows I’ve made mistakes. But those kids? They’re my life. They were my sister’s life. They are my every morning, every night, every in-between moment. And I will fight like hell to keep them safe.”
There’s a silence in the room when he finishes. A stillness that feels almost sacred.
He sits again, not looking back.
And then, I stand.
“Ma’am?” the judge asks, lifting one brow in a mixture of curiosity and warning.
I clear my throat. “My name is Lila Wright. I’m not family. I’m not here on behalf of the petitioner or the defense, but I work for CBC Nanny Services that Mr. Harrington hired. I’ve been living with Dean and the children for the past few months. I’ve seen the reality behind the accusations.”
The judge hesitates, then nods once. “You may proceed.”
I walk to the front, my heart thudding so loudly I’m sure everyone can hear it. But when I start speaking, my voice doesn’t shake.
“Oliver and Evelyn are happy,” I say. “They are loved. They are safe and well-transitioned. Not because of money. Not because of location or structure or anything else the petitioner has claimed is lacking. But because of Dean.”
I glance over at him. His jaw is tight. His eyes are locked on mine.
“I have watched that man give every piece of himself to those children. He makes sure Evelyn’s night-light doesn’t flicker because she’s scared of the dark. He plays baseball in the backyard with Oliver even when he’s dead tired from work. He shows up for them—everysingle day. And if this court is trying to determine what kind of parent he is, then let me be clear: he’s the kind every child deserves.”
When I sit back down, I feel Dean watching me, but I don’t turn. I just breathe. And I wait.
The judge calls for a recess. When she returns, her verdict is swift. The petition is denied.
Dean’s father storms out before the gavel even falls. His lawyer doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. The judge offers a tight nod, and then it’s done. Just like that, it’s over.
But what settles over the room isn’t relief. Not yet. It’s the weight offinally.
Dean rises slowly. His attorney claps him on the back, and papers shuffle around them. But all he does is look at me. And then he’s in front of me, his arms pulling me close, his hand cupping the back of my head like he’s afraid I might vanish.
He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t need to. His silence says it all.
The courthouse doors close behind us with a definitive thud, sealing away the tension and uncertainty that had filledthe room moments before. The sun outside is blinding, a stark contrast to the dim interior we've just left. I blink against the light as the reality of what transpired slowly settles in.
Dean walks beside me, his hand finding mine with a familiarity that sends a comforting warmth through me. Neither of us speaks; words feel inadequate to capture the whirlwind of emotions swirling within us. Relief, gratitude, and a lingering apprehension intertwine, creating a tapestry of feelings.
We reach his sports car, and he opens the passenger door for me, his gaze meeting mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. "Thank you," he says, his voice low and earnest.
I shake my head, a soft smile playing on my lips. "You don't have to thank me. I was exactly where I needed to be. My mom dropped me off after grabbing the kids. You should know she and my dad both wanted to be here."
He nods, closing the door gently before walking around to the driver's side. As he starts the engine, a comfortable silence envelops us, the kind that speaks volumes without uttering a single word.
The drive back to his house is quiet. The hum of the engine and the rhythmic passing of trees are the only sounds accompanying us. I steal glances at him, noting that his jaw is no longer clenched and the tension in his shoulders has eased. He's still processing, but there's a newfound lightness to him.
Upon arriving, the familiar sight of the house brings a sense of calm. The kids are at their favorite place, the farm, and the house is momentarily still. We enter and Dean heads straight to the kitchen, pulling out two glasses and pouring us each a drink.
He hands me a glass, our fingers brushing briefly, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm. We sit at the kitchenisland, the sunlight streaming through the windows casting a gilded glow over everything.
