Page 100 of No Greater Love
The small comfort of her presence steadied me enough to face Brad's assault, but I could see the trap closing around me. Every word he spoke was technically true, but stripped of context, twisted into a narrative that painted me as unstable, unfit, dangerous.
"Your Honor," Brad continued, "my client seeks only what any loving mother would seek: the opportunity to provide her daughter with the stability, resources, and maternal guidance."
I tried to find my footing, to explain what Paige meant to me, what we'd built together. "Your Honor, I understand Ms. Davis has made changes in her life, but Paige is thriving. She's happy, she's healthy, she knows she's loved. I've built my entire life around being her father?—"
"Mr. Crawford," Brad interrupted smoothly, "no one questions your... emotional attachment to the minor child. But surely you can see that a stable two-parent household, with the financial resources to provide the best education, the best opportunities?—"
"I provide for her," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "She has everything she needs."
"Basic needs, perhaps," Brad conceded with patronizing sympathy. "But what about her emotional needs? What about the guidance only a mother can provide? Particularly as she enters adolescence?"
I felt myself losing ground with every exchange, Brad's legal training running circles around my desperate sincerity. The folder of precedents in my hands might as well have been blank paper.
"Your Honor," I tried again, "Paige herself has expressed that she doesn't want a relationship with Ms. Davis. During their meeting, she was clear that?—"
"Children often resist change initially," Brad said dismissively. "It's natural for a child to cling to familiar patterns, even when those patterns aren't in her best interests. That's precisely why courts exist, to make decisions based on legal standards rather than the temporary emotions of an eleven-year-old."
I caught movement in the gallery and almost did a double take as I turned to see Sophia sliding into a seat next to Tasha. She met my eyes briefly, her expression tense but encouraging.Help is coming, her presence seemed to say, though I couldn't imagine what form that help might take.
Judge Morrison leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful in a way that made my stomach clench. "Mr. Crawford, while your dedication to your daughter over these years is noted, the law also recognizes the unique and foundational bond between a mother and her child, particularly a young daughter."
No.
Please, no.
"There is a long-standing principle," the judge continued, "the Tender Years Doctrine, which suggests that, all else being equal, a child of tender years benefits most from the care of her mother. Ms. Davis has expressed her desire to rectify her past absences and provide that maternal care."
The words hit me like a physical blow. The Tender Years Doctrine. I'd read about it in my frantic research, seen it mentioned in old cases, but every source had been clear that it was outdated, legally unsound, struck down by modern courts that recognized fathers as equal parents.
But this judge was invoking it anyway, hiding his bias behind archaic legal theory that had no place in a twenty-first-century courtroom.
Brad was trying not to smile, but I could see the satisfaction in his eyes. He'd gotten exactly what he wanted: a judge who would rubber-stamp his client's claims based on nothing more than biological sex.
In the gallery, I saw Tasha start to rise, her hand half-raised as if to object, to shout that wasn't valid law anymore. But Sophia caught her arm, shook her head slightly, and Tasha sank back down, her face a mask of barely controlled fury and terror.
Sophia was checking her phone discreetly, her own expression growing more anxious by the moment. Whatever plan she had, whatever help she'd promised, it was cutting dangerously close.
"Therefore," Judge Morrison continued, "I'm prepared to grant temporary primary custody to Ms. Davis, pending a full evaluation?—"
"Your Honor, if I may—" I started desperately.
"Mr. Crawford, the court has heard your position. Ms. Davis has demonstrated the stability and resources necessary to provide appropriate care, while concerns have been raised about your own mental health and recent workplace conduct. Combined with the natural preference for maternal care in cases involving young girls?—"
The courtroom door opened with a soft but decisive click.
Every head turned toward the sound, and I felt my breath catch as a woman in an impeccably tailored suit strode down the aisle with the kind of confidence that commanded immediate attention. She was maybe forty-five, auburn-haired and sharp-eyed, moving with the focused intensity of someone who'd never lost an argument that mattered.
Behind her walked a younger man in an equally expensive suit, both of them carrying themselves like sharks who'd just scented blood in the water.
"Your Honor," the woman said, setting her briefcase down with a decisive click that seemed to echo through the suddenly silent courtroom. "Eleanor Hayes, appearing for Mr. Crawford. I apologize for my tardiness, there were some urgent matters requiring immediate attention."
Brad's confident expression dropped immediately, uncertainty creeping in around the edges of his face. "Your Honor, Mr. Crawford indicated he would be representing himself pro se. This is highly irregular?—"
"Mr. Crawford is entitled to representation, Mr. Kensington," Ms. Hayes said smoothly, her voice carrying the kind of authority that made Brad's objection sound petulant. "Surely you're not suggesting otherwise?"
Judge Morrison looked between them, clearly annoyed by the disruption to what had been shaping up as a quick victory for Sarah. "Ms. Hayes, this is most unusual. The hearing is already in progress."
"With respect, Your Honor," Ms. Hayes replied, opening her briefcase with practiced efficiency, "I believe my client's interests have been significantly prejudiced by the proceedings thus far. If I may have a moment to confer with my client and review what's been presented?"
