"I work too much. I miss things. But you had options between 'talk to me' and 'let another man kiss you at our front door.' You made choices." Patricia clears her throat gently, back to business.
"Here's what Tom is seeking: legal separation moving toward divorce, primary physical custody of Olivia, joint legal custody with conditions, and supervised visitation for you initially, pending counseling and demonstrated stability. He will also seek a disproportionate share of the marital assets based on fault." Kristen stares at her. "You can't just take my child away."
I feel something cold and solid inside me answer before my mouth does. "I'm not taking her away. I'm making sure she has one stable home. You'll still see her."
"But I'm not gambling her childhood on whether you're lonely or not." For the first time since this started, my voice doesn't shake. I'm not begging. I'm not arguing.
I'm just done. Kristen looks between us, breathing hard. "Please, Tom. We can start over."
"I'll block Evan. I'll quit drinking. Whatever you want." I think of the dance floor, the porch, the phone calls, the school counselor saying my daughter asked if she broke her family.
"This is what I want," I say. "For Olivia to grow up in a house where she doesn't have to worry about which version of her mother she's getting that day. And for me to look in the mirror and not feel like a doormat." Patricia writes something down and closes the folder halfway.
The autopsy is done. The cause of death is obvious. In that room, with the evidence laid out between us like tagged exhibits, the marriage finally stops being a feeling and becomes what it is. A file moving through a system.
And I decide I'm going to see it through to the end. Family court isn't dramatic. It's fluorescent lights and scuffed benches and a judge with a stack of lives on his desk. Ours is just another file in the pile.
I sit at the petitioner's table in my only good navy suit, Patricia beside me, papers organized, tabs sticking out like color-coded wounds. Across the aisle, Kristen in a conservative dress, hair pulled back, makeup lighter than usual. She looks small. I don't take comfort in that.
The clerk reads the caption. "Harris versus Harris." The judge, Robert Harrison, flips through our file, glasses low on his nose. He starts with the basics.
Marriage length, income statements, my work record, Donna's affidavit about childcare. The parenting calendar I drafted showed school pickups, bedtime routines, Olivia's activities. Then he gets to the exhibits. "The court has reviewed photographic evidence from the evening of March 12th," he says, eyes on the pages, not on us.
"As well as statements from multiple witnesses describing the respondent's behavior as intoxicated, flirtatious, and confrontational toward the petitioner." He doesn't say, "Grinding on another man while trashing her husband," but I hear it anyway. "And we have security footage from the marital residence showing the respondent returning home with a third party at approximately 1:47 a.m., engaging in an extended embrace and kiss on the front porch while the minor child was inside."
He pauses there. Lets it hang. Kristen shifts in her seat. Her attorney mutters something about context and emotional distress.