Chapter Seventeen
Maggie
Sometimes, under duress, I had a tendency to act out.
It wasn’t healthy, but it was what I did. My lovely and expensive therapist, Linda, thought it was my way of avoiding pain. I tried to get angry instead. Or make other people angry at me.
Considering I’d already done both of those things and achieved zero results, I resorted to my other coping mechanism. One that might actually be useful to someone.
I threw myself into work, day and night.
I had other clients, but Mr. Reilly’s case took the forefront of my mind at all times. I couldn’t explain the compulsive need I had to reunite him with his children, but it kept me in the office long after everyone else had cleared out.
I just felt that if I could be the reason his family got put back together, it would fix things. Fix me.
He deserved it. And he would be so grateful to me. If I could just accomplish this one good thing, I could prove to myself that Liam was wrong. I wasn’t inherently selfish.
At least, I didn’t try to be.
Brody had been walking on eggshells around me lately, which I felt bad about, so I just sort of stopped going home. At least until I knew he was asleep.
It was better that way. I couldn’t burden him with all these ugly emotions fighting for the forefront of my mind. I couldn’t unload even more family trauma on him than he’d already seen. He just wouldn’t understand.
Besides, if I became the girl who went to him crying all the time, how long would it be before he got sick of it and left me?
No. I needed to get a handle on myself before I could self-sabotage the last good thing I had in my life. And for his sake, it was better that I was keeping my distance. At least until I could get back into a clear headspace.
“Are you nervous?” Mr. Reilly’s voice asked me, his eyes trailing down to my knee.
I placed a hand to steady it, plastering a smile as I looked over to him.
“Not at all,” I lied. “And you shouldn’t be, either.”
He gave an uneasy, half-hearted smile.
Some great lawyer I was. If the client could sense my nerves from a mile away, what would the judge think of me?
I stared off down the corridor, fixing my gaze on something in the distance to calm myself.
“You know,” Mr. Reilly cleared his throat. “This is where me and Pattie got married.”
“The courthouse?” I asked, slightly surprised. “You eloped?”
“Yeah,” he smiled, eyes glazing over in memory. “We hadn’t been together that long, but we just knew.” Then, as if forcibly pulled from his reverie, his eyes refocused to the present surroundings. “Seems funny to be here now, all things considered.”
His hands reached to tug for his Red Sox cap, and when they found it missing from its usual home atop his head, he wrung them relentlessly instead.
I fought the urge to sigh. So many stories just like his. People who thought they were going to be together forever, rushing into marriage without a second thought for what might be down the road.
I knew I couldn’t make that mistake. It’s why Brody and I were taking our time. People change. Things happen. I wasn’t going to risk ruining both our lives by doing something too hastily.
I had the strangest urge to bite my nails. It was something I hadn’t done since I was a kid, but now I felt an overwhelming desire to nip at the white-lined French tip on my index finger.
But before I could break the air of professionalism I was maintaining by resorting to a childhood habit, the court officer strode into the hallway, looking to us with disinterest.
“Reilly vs. Reilly?” he asked with an air of indifference that came from seeing a string of broken families all day long.
Mr. Reilly nodded, while I was already getting to my feet.
“We’re ready for you.”
I brushed my hands against my slacks, grateful that the clamminess from my palms wouldn’t show against the black fabric.
I wasn’t sure why I felt so nervous. I’d been in court hundreds of times. But this case felt different. Personal. And I was all too aware of how this might go down.
Courts didn’t often side with the fathers. Not in the way Mr. Reilly was hoping.
Here he’d been, in therapy programs and respecting his ex’s unreasonable requests of distance—and all he wanted in exchange was the chance to be in his kids’ lives the way he was before.
I knew he wasn’t going to get that. But if we were lucky, he might get more time than the sparse visits here and there he was getting on his ex’s whims.
It wouldn’t appease him. I knew that. How could it? How could a judge expect any father to go from spending every day with their children, tucking them into bed every night, bringing them to school each morning—to only getting to see them every other weekend?
It was cruel. It was unfair.
And if I had any say in it, it wouldn’t be the case for Mr. Reilly.
He wanted split custody. And if Mrs. Reilly was hellbent on kicking him to the curb forever, then the least she could do is give him equal rights to time with their children.
Sucking in a silent breath, I braced myself for the battlefield that was court and walked in with my head held high.
I heard Mr. Reilly suck in a breath at the sight of Mrs. Reilly at the opposite podium.
She looked normal enough. Her mousy brown hair was up in a clip and she wore a neutral expression, not even sparing so much as a glance in our direction.
Did she know she was being selfish, I wondered? Did she know she was tearing a family apart because of a mistake?
She looked like my mom, a little bit.
Not for the first time, I wondered why my mom couldn’t just hold it together, be what my Dad needed her to be for our sake. Why did she have to force him away when he had kids at home who needed him? Why couldn’t she just be a little… less?
Less emotional. Less needy. Less overwhelming to him. Then he might’ve stayed.
I turned away, locking my attention on the judge in front of me. I didn’t know why I was panicking, or why this moment felt so much bigger than myself when I’d done this countless times, but I found myself slipping in and out of focus as thoughts pulsed through my head.
I was grateful for all the years I’d already spent in a courtroom, because muscle memory became my saving grace in getting me through the formality of the opening while I unraveled internally.
The judge peered down at the papers in front of him, then glanced between our two podiums before stating,
“As I understand it, this is a preliminary hearing to determine temporary custody arrangements pending final divorce proceedings. Is that correct?”
His statement was met with murmurs of agreement before we were invited to share our case.
“Given Mr. Reilly’s demonstrated stability and cooperation, we believe joint custody is both fair and in the best interest of the children.”
I heard the words coming out of my mouth, going by the professional script of the courthouse rules even when I felt like screaming the words out instead.
I reminded the judge of Mr. Reilly’s consistent history of employment, his attendance of parenting classes the last few weeks, how he’s kept away from the children per his ex’s unreasonable demands, despite the fact I knew it was tearing him apart to do so.
But it didn’t seem to matter.
Mrs. Reilly’s lawyer was flipping the script. Claiming that the kids were too young, the situation too fresh to have their time split up. He proposed postponing the hearing until further notice.
Which meant, indefinitely. Divorces could drag on for years. I wasn’t going to let Mr. Reilly wait that long, miss significant moments in his kids’ lives while the whole ordeal played out.
“It’s in the best interest of the children to have the stability of remaining in their own home without the constant back and forth.”
“Objection,” I cried. “Your honor, it’s in the best interest of the children to see their father. Mrs. Reilly has placed significant restrictions on Mr. Reilly’s contact with his children.”
“Objection,” her lawyer interjected. “Your honor, Mrs. Reilly is navigating a difficult situation and is doing her best to keep as stable a home environment for her children as possible during this time of upheaval in their lives. I think we can all agree it’s not in the best interest of the children to be shipped back and forth like luggage. ”
“Enough,” the judge interjected, tone full of authority earned from years at the head of a courtroom. “This matter is not up for the defenses to determine. It’s up to me, and I’ve made a decision.”
I held my breath.
“Mr. Reilly,” the judge turned his attention toward us. “With the separation being so recent, and due to the matter of your unstable living situation—”
“Your honor, my client has a stable living situation.”
“I’m staying with my brother,” he added quickly, and then, forgetting himself, hurried to add, “your honor.”
“And this is your permanent residency now?”
“Well, no.” Mr. Reilly shuffled on his feet. “It’s just until I can find a place of my own. But the housing market is a wreck, ‘specially in Boston. But you don’t have to worry—my brother would never kick me out until I got on my feet. And the kids love their uncle.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Reilly, but you must know that without a permanent residency, there cannot be any granting of equal custody.”
“Your honor,” I faltered, desperately. “His home life is stable. He’s proven time and again to be reliable. The children have made their desire to see him evident—”
“And would you have those two young ones sleeping on their uncle’s floor half of the week?” He tilted his head at me in question.
“I got air mattresses,” Mr. Reilly’s voice cracked beside me. “We could turn it into a fort. We make them all the time. They’d love it.”
My heart shattered. He wanted this so bad. I had promised, foolishly, that I could make it happen.
Why had I done it? Wishful thinking? Because I thought myself more capable than I had any right to believe I was?