He didn’t need to.
That afternoon I met with a family attorney recommended by a friend from college. Her office overlooked a parking garage and smelled faintly of coffee and toner. She listened without interruption, took notes, and then said, “You need emergency custody orders immediately.”
I remember nodding as if we were discussing someone else’s life.
She asked if I wanted to file for divorce.
I thought of Eric’s face under the red and blue lights. Thought of Noah’s voice. Thought of the panel in the closet floor I had walked past every day without seeing.
“Yes,” I said.
There was no drama in the word. No trembling. No big speech.
Just certainty.
The next forty-eight hours became a maze of practical devastation. Insurance adjusters. Child welfare check-ins. Temporary housing arrangements. A call from my employer telling me to take whatever time I needed. My mother flying in from Phoenix and arriving with the determined expression of a woman who knew better than to ask whether things were bad. The answer was written all over me.
Eric called once from county jail.
I did not answer.
