Chapter 31 Janie
THIRTY-ONE
Janie
The cushions swallow me as I stare at the empty swing. Three days since I served Warren. Three days since I destroyed whatever we were building.
My coffee sits untouched, gone cold hours ago.
I press the phone to my ear. "I can't believe I did it, Gem."
"You did what you had to do." Gemma's voice travels from Savannah. She's only one state over, but might as well be a world away. "He was going to file against you first."
My laugh is hollow, foreign to my own ears. "And now we're both wrecked. You should see the paperwork Nicole drafted. It paints him as practically a stranger to Beckett. I couldn't even finish reading it. She told me this is standard in custody cases."
"Isn't that what you wanted? To protect your custody?"
I rub my eyes, gritty from another sleepless night. "I wanted to protect Beckett. Now I've turned his father into the enemy. No, Gem. This isn't what I wanted at all."
"Warren turned himself into the enemy the second he started drafting custody papers without telling you. Don’t twist this into being all your fault."
I don't answer her.
"Have you eaten today?"
My silence answers for me.
"Janie, for fuck's sake." The worry in her voice makes my chest ache. "You’re not fighting him, you’re fighting for yourself. For Beckett. If you don’t take care of your body, he’ll crush you in court. And it won't be because he’s right. It'll be because you’ll be too weak to stand."
"I don't want to be at odds with him." The admission breaks something loose inside me. "I wanted to love him. I wanted us to be a family."
I start to cry. That is my go-to reaction to everything lately. I couldn't even get through folding a load of laundry without falling into a puddle on the floor beside it.
"I know, honey."
The tears keep pouring, but I keep talking through them. "Mom has Beckett for the weekend, and I'm relieved. What kind of mother is relieved not to see her child?"
"The human kind. The kind who knows her limits, who needs time to heal."
I curl deeper into the cushions. "I'm a complete wreck, Gem. My job is hanging on by a thread, and the man I love was planning a sneak attack on me. I have nothing to give right now. Not to Beckett, not to work, not even to myself."
"So be a hot mess." Her voice softens. "You're allowed to fall apart when no one's watching."
"I don't recognize myself anymore." I stare at the custody papers spread across the porch table. "I used to be strong. I raised him alone for over four years. Now I'm broken, with barely enough energy to read to him before bed."
"You're not broken. You're grieving."
The word hits like a punch. Grieving. Yes.
"I'm mourning a man I never really had." My voice cracks. "A family that never existed outside my imagination."
"Janie, stop it. You still have to rise for yourself and for Beckett. Grieve, be a hot mess, and then you'll pick yourself up and continue on. That's what you do."
I press my thumb to my forehead, trying to contain the ache. "I don't know if I can fight him in court."
"You can. You have to. You’ve done harder things than this, Janie."
Nicole's office smells like expensive leather and air freshener. I sit awkwardly in a plush chair that should be comfortable but somehow isn't. It's a perfect metaphor for this entire situation.
"I know we only just met, but you look like you're not taking care of yourself." Nicole's voice is gentle, but her eyes miss nothing. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, not a strand out of place. Unlike me.
I push my fingers through my hair, feeling the tangles, and wondering what she must think of this crazy woman in front of her. "This is how I get through things. No sleep, lots of Ben & Jerry's, and crying. I'll pull it together eventually."
"That's understandable. Just remember this is about Beckett. That is why we are here. Don't lose sight of that." Nicole opens the leather portfolio on her desk. "Let's talk about what happens next."
My stomach knots. "I keep thinking I've made a terrible mistake."
"You haven't." Nicole's voice is firm. "Filing for sole custody was the right first move. It gives us leverage."
"Leverage." Such an ugly word. "It sounds like I'm trying to hurt him. That's never been my intent. He is a wonderful father, and he didn't ask to be put in this situation."
But isn’t that exactly what he thought about me when he drafted his petition? Not protecting. Not trusting. Leveraging.
The thought burns, because while I was picturing a future together, he was already treating me like an opponent across a courtroom table.
"You're not hurting him. You're establishing a strong negotiating position." Nicole taps a perfectly manicured nail against the document. "This petition isn't about punishing Warren. It's about protecting your rights until we have a formal agreement. It's just part of the process."
Is this what he was doing to me, unbeknownst to me? If this is the process, was this always his plan?
My eyes burn. "I don't want to keep Beckett from him."
"And you won't." Nicole leans forward. "But Warren drafted papers before you contacted me. You need to remember that. He was ready to file without discussion. We needed to act decisively."
I stare at the family photos on her shelf. Her smiling children, a husband with his arm around Nicole. Happy endings that seem impossible right now.
"I love him." My voice cracks. "Warren, I mean. And Beckett adores him."
"That's good. It means you can build something healthy." Nicole's expression softens. "But love doesn't replace legal protection."
My throat is tight.
"Can he take him from me? I don't think he would, but could he if he wanted to?"
The fear of that nearly splits me open.
"That won't happen on my watch." Nicole slides a tissue box toward me. "Right now, Warren's hurt and angry. He's acting from emotion. We're acting from strategy."
I take a deep breath, telling myself to stay strong. She's wrong. I'm totally hurt and angry, reacting on pure emotion.
"So what happens now?" I ask.
"You'll be served with Warren's petition officially. He's filed, and now it's just a matter of when," Nicole taps the legal pad with her pen. "But that doesn't mean we're heading straight to court."
I nod, feeling hollow yet somehow steadier than before. "I understand."
"Go to work. Try to maintain normalcy. We'll regroup once we see his full filing."
I take her advice, though it seems impossible. By the time I reach CHG, I’m clinging to my third coffee like it might keep me upright.
My eyes are like sandpaper, and my thoughts are tangled up in custody papers rather than budget projections. Just make it through today. That's all you have to do.
"Janie!" Caleb appears from nowhere, his purple polka-dot bowtie bobbing as he walks. "I've been waiting for you. Did you get my voicemail?"
"I'm sorry I'm late. No, I didn't. What was it about?"
"Never mind that." He guides me by the elbow toward his office. "Come with me."
My stomach drops. Another crisis. Another problem to solve when I can't even solve my own crisis.
Inside his office, Caleb practically vibrates with energy, a stark contrast to my exhaustion. I sit down in front of his desk and take a much-needed sip of my lukewarm coffee.
"Pope called this morning."
I brace myself for the inevitable ax to fall on my program. "Just tell me how bad it is. And tell me you're not relegating me to the mail room."
"Bad?" Caleb's eyebrows shoot up. "This is probably the best news you'll hear all month."
There is no such thing as good news right now. Just less bad. "What are you talking about?"
"We have a donor." His eyes sparkle. "And this isn't a pledge. Already wired twenty million dollars for a permanent endowment, specifically for your outreach program."
My coffee slips in my grip. "What? How? Who? No." I pinch myself. This is surreal.
"Yes. It's done. The money's already here, Janie. The dividends alone will fund your entire operation for the foreseeable future, with room to grow. Pope is already talking about expanding it."
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. "The Bransons changed their minds?"
"Not the Bransons. Someone new."
"Who?"
"Anonymous." Caleb leans back. "Very anonymous. The funds came through something called MJ Strong, LLC. Pope tried to get more information, but whoever it is, they're serious about privacy."
"Twenty million dollars." The number is too big to comprehend. "Just... given to CHG?"
"Pope wants to meet with you about coming up with a full family resource center." Caleb smiles. "With you as director, naturally."
"But why? Why now?" My voice sounds small even to myself.
"Does it matter?" Caleb shrugs. "The point is, your program is safe. More than safe, it's funded in perpetuity."
I press my hands against my eyes, unexpected tears threatening. After weeks of frantic fundraising and imminent failure, this miracle seems almost suspicious.
"I should be jumping for joy." My laugh sounds watery. "Instead, I'm sitting here wondering what the catch is. Forgive me for my cynicism. Life keeps pulling the rug out from under me lately."
Because isn’t there always one? Every time something good has landed in my lap, it’s come with strings I didn’t see until they tangled tight. After years of scraping by, I don’t even know how to trust the idea of something working out so perfectly.
Caleb waves a hand, brushing off my doubt. "No catch, Janie."
I set my coffee cup down on the edge of Caleb's desk and sit back. "Wow," is all I can say. At least one of my stressors has been eliminated. Better that than my job.
"I mean, a full resource center for community outreach. How amazing is that, Janie? The best thing that ever could have happened was losing the Bransons."
I stumble back to my office in a daze, my mind still trying to process Caleb's words. Twenty million dollars. An anonymous donor.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I sink into my chair, staring at the papers spread across my desk. Budget projections I'd stayed up rewriting. Staffing cuts I'd agonized over. All of it is irrelevant.
"What just happened?" I whisper to the empty room.
My fingers tremble as I trace the outline of the proposal for a donor dinner I have next week. Based on what Caleb just told me, I don't even need to bother.
A family resource center with me as director. It's the career I've worked toward since college, before even Northwestern, suddenly right in front of me.
A win in a sea of losses.
But the warmth doesn't spread. Instead, it sits isolated, surrounded by the cold reality of everything else falling apart.
I pull out my phone, scrolling to the last text from Warren.
Please talk to me.
The whiplash is sharp enough to make me dizzy. Professionally, I've been handed stability and expansion beyond my wildest hopes. Personally, my world lies in smoking ruins.
I close my eyes, picturing Beckett's face when Warren lifted him onto his shoulders at the Christmas village. The way Warren's fingers felt against mine when we decorated the tree together. The quiet moments by the fire when I let myself believe we could be a family.
I open my desk drawer and pull out the photo Beckett drew last week of three stick figures holding hands. Mommy, Beckett, and Warren. A family that existed only briefly, through the eyes of a child. And the hopes of his mom.
The contrast carves me open. One life rising, another dead before it ever had a chance.
The conference room lights have dimmed to their evening setting, but I can't bring myself to leave. My laptop screen blazes brightly.
Everyone else has gone home. It’s just me and three stacks of paper that somehow represent my fractured life. I don't need to scramble to fill the hole left by the Bransons, so why am I still here?
I need to go pick up Beckett.
I drag my fingers across the custody petition. Thick legal pages covered in cold, clinical language that reduces my son to an asset being divided. My throat tightens as I scan phrases like "primary residential parent" and "visitation schedule."
The second pile contains my work files..
And the third, the miracle. Twenty million dollars from nowhere dropped into my lap like magic.
I trace the edge of the proposal with my fingertip, remembering the look on Caleb’s face. Pure excitement.
So why am I sick to my stomach?
I pull the custody papers closer. Nicole’s notes slash the margins: emphasize limited contact, stress consistency of care.
Each one makes me flinch. This isn’t Warren. He’s Beckett’s father—the man teaching him soccer, the man who carries him upstairs when he falls asleep during movies.
The man I love.
I pace the length of the office. Outside the window, Palm Beach glitters with evening lights. Something about fall nights here used to be cozy. Low humidity, mild temperature, the smell of a fire burning in someone's chimney in the distance.
My phone buzzes against the glass. Warren’s name glows on the screen, along with a photo of him with Beckett on his shoulders at the Christmas tree farm. It's not a text. A call.
My hand hovers, heart pounding. What would I even say?
Four rings. Five. Six.
I don’t answer.
The silence afterward presses down, heavy as stone. Nicole told me not to talk to him until we have an agreement. I have to protect myself.
I gather the three piles—custody, career, miracle—and slide them into my leather portfolio. Tomorrow will bring more battles, more decisions.
But tonight, I’ve made one choice.
I stand, shoulders squared, chest tight with steel and dread. I can survive this, one declined phone call at a time.
Even if the worst is still coming.