Page 98 of No Greater Love
He reached over and took my hand, squeezing gently. "Thank you for being here. For being part of this family."
Family.The word hit me differently this morning, weighted with everything we stood to lose.
Inside the courthouse, we found the family court waiting area, a beige nightmare of uncomfortable chairs and fluorescent lighting. Sarah was already there, looking polished and confident next to a man in an expensive suit who could only be her lawyer.
She caught sight of us and smiled… the same practiced, empty smile she'd worn during that disastrous coffee shop meeting. Like she'd already won.
Maybe she had.
thirty-six
nate
The courthouse stepsfelt like walking toward my own execution. Each step up the concrete stairs brought me closer to a room where strangers would decide whether I deserved to keep the daughter I'd raised from birth, whether eleven years of bedtime stories and scraped knees and homework battles counted for anything against biological claims and legal maneuvering.
The folder of legal precedents I'd hastily printed felt laughably thin under my arm, my amateur-hour research a pitiful shield against the professional demolition I knew was coming. Five sleepless nights had bled into days spent trying to make sense of impenetrable terms like "best interests of the child" and "parental fitness." I'd rehearsed arguments in my head until the words lost all meaning, arguments I'd inevitably fumble in front of a judge… and worse, in front of Sarah's incredibly pricey lawyer. Tasha had found a local review calling him a "shark with a heart of darkness," and the description felt chillingly accurate.
The courthouse lobby was all marble and echoing voices, designed to intimidate. I checked in with a clerk who looked at me with the kind of professional sympathy reserved for people about to be flattened by the legal system.
"Family Court, Courtroom 3," she said, handing me a visitor's badge. "You can wait in the gallery until your case is called."
I found Courtroom 3 and slipped inside, immediately spotting Sarah near the front. She looked like she was attending a business meeting—perfectly pressed blazer, hair styled with that casual-but-expensive look that probably took an hour to achieve. Next to her sat a man who could have stepped out of a yacht club catalog: blonde hair, perfect teeth, a suit that clearly cost a sizeable fraction of my yearly salary.
This had to be her lawyer. Bradford Kensington, according to the papers. He was leaning back in his chair with the casual confidence of someone who'd never lost a case, occasionally murmuring something to Sarah that made her nod seriously.
I took a seat in the back, trying to project the kind of military bearing that had gotten me through worse situations than this. Shoulders square, spine straight, hands steady on my knees. Don't let them see you sweat.
But inside, I was drowning. This wasn't a medical emergency where my training kicked in, where muscle memory and protocols could carry me through. This was a different kind of battlefield, one where the rules were written in a language I barely understood.
The judge entered—the Honorable William Morrison, according to the nameplate—and I felt my heart sink further. He looked like every conservative authority figure who'd ever dismissed my concerns: silver-haired, stern, the kind of man who probably thought single fathers were an aberration against the natural order.
"Good morning," Judge Morrison said, settling behind his bench with the kind of casual authority that filled the room. "We're here for Crawford versus Davis, regarding modification of custody for the minor child Paige Crawford."
Sarah's lawyer—Brad—stood with practiced ease. "Good morning, Your Honor. Bradford Kensington representing petitioner Sarah Davis."
"Nathan Crawford," I said, rising awkwardly. "Representing myself."
Judge Morrison's eyebrows rose slightly, and I caught the brief look he exchanged with the court clerk.Amateur, his expression said.This should be quick.
"Very well," the judge said. "Mr. Kensington, you may proceed with your opening."
Brad smiled—the kind of smile that probably charmed judges and juries but made my skin crawl. "Thank you, Your Honor. My client is not here to tear down a family, but to reunite one."
The words were delivered with perfect sincerity, as if Sarah hadn't walked away eleven years ago without a backward glance.
"Ms. Davis has undergone extensive personal growth since the difficult period following Paige's birth," Brad continued, his voice warm with manufactured compassion. "She's established a stable career in the medical technology field, purchased a beautiful home in an excellent school district, and most importantly, she's ready to provide Paige with the maternal influence every young girl needs."
He gestured toward Sarah, who nodded sadly, as if her absence had been some tragic circumstance beyond her control rather than a deliberate choice.
"My client isn't seeking to remove Paige from her father's life," Brad said, his tone suggesting he was being incredibly reasonable. "She simply wants to provide the stability and resources that a single father, however well-intentioned, cannot match."
The implication hung in the air like poison gas.Single father. Well-intentioned but insufficient.
"Mr. Crawford," Judge Morrison said, turning to me. "Your response?"
I stood, my folder of research suddenly feeling like tissue paper in my hands. "Your Honor, I've been Paige's sole parent since she was three months old. I've never missed a parent-teacher conference, never missed a doctor's appointment, never failed to be there when she needed me."
The words came out steady, but I could hear how inadequate they sounded compared to Brad's polished presentation. Love versus legal strategy. Devotion versus dollars.
