The divorce proceedings moved quickly at first, the way these things often do when one side believes they hold all the cards. Caleb’s attorney spoke confidently, painting a picture of a household weighed down by my emotions, my stress, my inability to cope. They framed him as the anchor, the responsible one who kept routines intact while I spiraled. Sitting there, I felt like I was watching a version of my life being performed by strangers who had memorized only his lines. I wanted to speak up, to explain the way my body tightened when he walked into a room angry, the way the air changed when his voice sharpened, the way I learned to anticipate moods before they arrived. But none of that felt admissible. None of it felt provable. The court wanted evidence, not intuition. Harper sat beside me, her feet dangling above the floor, her small hands folded neatly in her lap. She was unusually quiet that day, her gaze fixed on the wood grain of the bench in front of her. When the judge asked if there was anything further to add before adjournment, I shook my head, already bracing myself for the slow erosion of everything I thought I knew about fairness. That was when Harper stood up, her chair scraping softly against the floor, and asked the question that changed the direction of the room: “Your Honor, can I show you something Mommy doesn’t know?”
