Chapter 43
Over the next week, life becomes a quiet countdown, a low pulse of waiting beneath everything I do.
Every night, I talk to Phoebe before she goes to bed, sometimes catching Mick’s voice in the background. He texts me only once—letting me know that he, Eliot, and Anna will be moving Joan into the Waters over the weekend.
I ask if Phoebe knows about the move and if so, how she’s handling the news.
He replies that she knows—and she’s okay. She’s remarkably strong, he adds.
She got that from Erin, I think.
Then again, maybe Erin hadn’t been as strong as I’d always believed.
—
Wednesday arrives.
My phone rings just after lunch. It’s Mick.
“I have some bad news,” he says.
My stomach drops, wondering what he considers bad news—that he’s Phoebe’s father, or that he isn’t.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I took Phoebe to the appointment. We filled out a bunch of paperwork. Then I got to the consent form.”
“Consent for what?”
“Consent to swab her cheek. It needs to be signed by a parent listed on her birth certificate—or a legal guardian.”
“Oh, shit,” I whisper.
“Yeah.”
“Did you explain our situation?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“There are no exceptions.”
“Can Joan consent?”
“No. Grandparents would need a court order, too.”
My throat goes dry. “So what now?”
“We need to file a petition for guardianship—at least a temporary one.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “How long does temporary last?”
“Six months. Time for me to file and get the test done.”
“No. I’ll file,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want my attorney’s contact info?”
“Yes, please.”
“All right. I’ll text it to you now.”
—
Later that afternoon, I call Mick’s attorney.
“Saks Law. This is Glenn,” he answers, brisk and no-nonsense.
“Hi. This is Billie Wright. Mick O’Leary’s friend.”
“Yes. Hello,” he says. “I understand you want to file a petition for guardianship of a minor child?”
“That’s correct. For Phoebe Callahan.”
“Yes,” he says, papers shuffling in the background. “Got it right here.”
I take a breath. “Do I need to retain you first?”
“Mick’s already handled that. He said you live in New York?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. Since Covid, many judges allow virtual hearings, but I recommend you come to the hearing in person.”
“No problem.”
“Great. Do you want to file for temporary or permanent guardianship?”
“Temporary for now,” I say. “I assume Mick told you about the paternity issue?”
“He did,” Glenn says.
“Once we have the results, we can decide on a permanent arrangement,” I say.
“That makes sense,” Glenn says. “Just so you know, temporary guardianship requires that the petitioner relocate to the minor child’s county of residence.”
I swallow, thinking of Dean. “Okay.”
“With a permanent guardianship, there’s a bit more flexibility. But even then, judges prefer continuity for the minor.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” I say, my pulse ticking hard.
“Great. So we’ll file electronically, wait for a court date, and then you’ll appear in person. Sound good?”
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”
“You bet,” Glenn says.
When we hang up, I sit back, staring at the half-empty coffee cup on my desk.
Despite the clear next steps, I feel like I’m holding my breath.
—
That night, Dean and I meet at Toloache 82, an upscale Mexican restaurant on 82nd Street.
The ceilings are low, the air thick with roasted chilies.
We follow the host to a small table tucked into a corner.
Dean gives me the better seat as he always does, and we order margaritas, chips, salsa, and guacamole.
Once our entrées arrive, I bite the bullet. “So I talked to Mick today.”
Dean freezes, leaning over his lobster tacos. “And?”
“There’s a complication with the paternity test. They can’t swab Phoebe without a guardian’s signature—a court-appointed guardian.”
“Okay, so what’s next?”
“I’ve already talked to a lawyer. I’m filing for a temporary guardianship.” I hesitate. “The only rub is I’ll have to relocate to Wisconsin for six months.”
Dean’s jaw flexes, once, then twice. His thumb traces the rim of his glass. “Wait. Why would you be the temporary guardian when Mick’s already there? Doesn’t it make more sense for him to file and get the paternity test? Then, once we have an answer, we proceed with permanent guardianship.”
His logic is solid, but it doesn’t touch what my heart already knows: I don’t want to wait. I want to be with Phoebe now.
I take a deep breath and do my best to explain to Dean what I’m still putting into words for myself.
“When I first flew back, it was just for the funeral, for a crisis I could step into and then out of again. But the more time I spend with Phoebe, the more it feels like she isn’t just Erin’s daughter—she’s my responsibility.
Moving to New York all those years ago felt like something I had to do for myself.
Staying in Wisconsin for these six months feels like something I have to do for her. ”
Dean blinks. “What if she turns out to be his?”
“Then the six months lapse, I come home, and he files for permanent guardianship.”
“Okay.” He frowns. “I just wish you’d talked to me before contacting a lawyer—”
“It all happened today—and I’m talking to you now.”
“Honestly, this feels more like you telling me.”
Conversation ricochets around us. Someone at the bar laughs too loudly. A blender whirs and stops.
“It’s only temporary,” I say.
“Right,” he finally says, his voice sad. “Temporary.”
—
After Dean pays the bill, we walk back to his place. We don’t hold hands. We barely speak. The word temporary echoes: Temporary guardianship. Temporary fixes. Even my life in New York suddenly feels borrowed—time loaned against a future that keeps receding.
—
On Monday morning, the court’s auto-reply pings: Hearing scheduled: this Thursday, 10:30 a.m., Waukesha County Courthouse. Virtual appearance permitted at the judge’s discretion.
Glenn emails me: Can you fly in Wednesday?
I reply yes, then forward the email to Dean. It feels easier than saying it out loud—like if I leave the words on a screen, the conversation can’t go off the rails.
—
The next couple of days crawl by. I see my patients. Phoebe calls at night. Mick sends careful updates.
At home, Dean and I sleep side by side but not together. Once, I wake to find him sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
The night before I leave for Wisconsin, I get in bed and curl against him. “Please don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” he says. “I’m sad.”
It’s a gut punch. Anger I could handle; being the reason Dean is sad is almost unbearable. Yet I don’t waver.
“It’s only six months,” I say. “It’ll pass in a flash.”
“It’s not about the time apart. I hate that—but we can visit.”
“Then what’s it about?”
“I just feel like we’re on a slippery slope—and sliding in the wrong direction.”
“How can caring for Phoebe be the wrong direction?”
He sighs and tucks his arm around me. “Because, Billie, your ex-boyfriend might be her biological father.”
“We’ll get the test,” I say. “If she’s his, I’ll come home.”
Silence. Then—“Are you sure about that? You’ll step away from any custody if Mick is her father?”
I swallow hard. “Yes,” I say.
“Okay,” he says, some of the tension easing from his face.
A wave of fear kicks up. Will I really be able to keep that promise?
“Let’s just take this one day at a time,” I say, finally admitting to myself that I don’t want Mick to be Phoebe’s father, not because of him or Erin—but because I want to be the one building a life with her.