Custody. The word rang in my head like a siren. My hand shook as I held my glass of water. I wasn’t imagining things. I had heard it.
Confrontation Without Answers
“So have I,” I replied, calm but trembling. “Do you remember our daughter?”
The air shattered between us. We had already lost one child—our grief was real. But that loss couldn’t be the excuse for erasing my place.
My Exit Plan
The next morning, I called my doctor and said I felt unsafe. They moved my appointment up. The doctor listened carefully and handed me a card: a women’s legal center. “Just in case,” she said gently. She also added a note to my file: patient expresses concern about home environment.
I texted my sister to pick me up. I packed light—clothes, prenatal vitamins, documents, and the small memory box hidden behind the couch: hospital bands, ultrasound pictures, the tiny hat from the daughter we lost.
A Temporary Shelter, Real Safety
I stayed at my sister’s apartment—tiny but warm. I slept deeply for the first time in weeks. When I turned my phone back on two days later, I found ten missed calls from Arlo and one voicemail from his mother:
“I hope you’ve had time to reflect. Running off like that—it doesn’t look good for someone about to be a mother again.”
Drawing a Line With Law
I called the lawyer. Her steady voice anchored me: “You have the right to be where you feel safe. He cannot take the baby without a court order. Document everything—texts, witnesses, notes.”
So I did. I wrote down every odd phrase, every dismissal, every night I was shut out of my own nursery.
An Apology, But Not the End Continue reading…
