Chapter 36
thirty-six
nate
The courthouse steps felt like walking toward my own execution.
Each step up the concrete stairs brought me closer to a room where strangers would decide whether I deserved to keep the daughter I'd raised from birth, whether eleven years of bedtime stories and scraped knees and homework battles counted for anything against biological claims and legal maneuvering.
The folder of legal precedents I'd hastily printed felt laughably thin under my arm, my amateur-hour research a pitiful shield against the professional demolition I knew was coming.
Five sleepless nights had bled into days spent trying to make sense of impenetrable terms like "best interests of the child" and "parental fitness.
" I'd rehearsed arguments in my head until the words lost all meaning, arguments I'd inevitably fumble in front of a judge…
and worse, in front of Sarah's incredibly pricey lawyer.
Tasha had found a local review calling him a "shark with a heart of darkness," and the description felt chillingly accurate.
The courthouse lobby was all marble and echoing voices, designed to intimidate. I checked in with a clerk who looked at me with the kind of professional sympathy reserved for people about to be flattened by the legal system.
"Family Court, Courtroom 3," she said, handing me a visitor's badge. "You can wait in the gallery until your case is called."
I found Courtroom 3 and slipped inside, immediately spotting Sarah near the front.
She looked like she was attending a business meeting—perfectly pressed blazer, hair styled with that casual-but-expensive look that probably took an hour to achieve.
Next to her sat a man who could have stepped out of a yacht club catalog: blonde hair, perfect teeth, a suit that clearly cost a sizeable fraction of my yearly salary.
This had to be her lawyer. Bradford Kensington, according to the papers. He was leaning back in his chair with the casual confidence of someone who'd never lost a case, occasionally murmuring something to Sarah that made her nod seriously.
I took a seat in the back, trying to project the kind of military bearing that had gotten me through worse situations than this. Shoulders square, spine straight, hands steady on my knees. Don't let them see you sweat.
But inside, I was drowning. This wasn't a medical emergency where my training kicked in, where muscle memory and protocols could carry me through. This was a different kind of battlefield, one where the rules were written in a language I barely understood.
The judge entered—the Honorable William Morrison, according to the nameplate—and I felt my heart sink further.
He looked like every conservative authority figure who'd ever dismissed my concerns: silver-haired, stern, the kind of man who probably thought single fathers were an aberration against the natural order.
"Good morning," Judge Morrison said, settling behind his bench with the kind of casual authority that filled the room. "We're here for Crawford versus Davis, regarding modification of custody for the minor child Paige Crawford."
Sarah's lawyer—Brad—stood with practiced ease. "Good morning, Your Honor. Bradford Kensington representing petitioner Sarah Davis."
"Nathan Crawford," I said, rising awkwardly. "Representing myself."
Judge Morrison's eyebrows rose slightly, and I caught the brief look he exchanged with the court clerk. Amateur, his expression said. This should be quick.
"Very well," the judge said. "Mr. Kensington, you may proceed with your opening."
Brad smiled—the kind of smile that probably charmed judges and juries but made my skin crawl. "Thank you, Your Honor. My client is not here to tear down a family, but to reunite one."
The words were delivered with perfect sincerity, as if Sarah hadn't walked away eleven years ago without a backward glance.
"Ms. Davis has undergone extensive personal growth since the difficult period following Paige's birth," Brad continued, his voice warm with manufactured compassion.
"She's established a stable career in the medical technology field, purchased a beautiful home in an excellent school district, and most importantly, she's ready to provide Paige with the maternal influence every young girl needs. "
He gestured toward Sarah, who nodded sadly, as if her absence had been some tragic circumstance beyond her control rather than a deliberate choice.
"My client isn't seeking to remove Paige from her father's life," Brad said, his tone suggesting he was being incredibly reasonable. "She simply wants to provide the stability and resources that a single father, however well-intentioned, cannot match."
The implication hung in the air like poison gas. Single father. Well-intentioned but insufficient.
"Mr. Crawford," Judge Morrison said, turning to me. "Your response?"
I stood, my folder of research suddenly feeling like tissue paper in my hands. "Your Honor, I've been Paige's sole parent since she was three months old. I've never missed a parent-teacher conference, never missed a doctor's appointment, never failed to be there when she needed me."
The words came out steady, but I could hear how inadequate they sounded compared to Brad's polished presentation. Love versus legal strategy. Devotion versus dollars.
"Ms. Davis abandoned her parental responsibilities when Paige was an infant," I continued, trying to channel some of the authority I felt in the ER.
"She's had no contact with Paige for eleven years.
No birthday cards, no Christmas presents, no phone calls.
She doesn't know Paige's favorite book or her best friend's name or what makes her laugh. "
"Your Honor," Brad interrupted smoothly, "my client was struggling with postpartum depression during a very difficult period in her life. She made the responsible choice to remove herself from a situation where she couldn't provide adequate care."
Responsible choice. As if abandoning a three-month-old baby was an act of selfless heroism.
"She's spent the intervening years building the stability and resources necessary to be the mother Paige deserves," Brad continued. "Meanwhile, there are serious concerns about Mr. Crawford's fitness as a primary caregiver."
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. Here it came.
"Mr. Crawford was recently the subject of disciplinary action at his workplace following an incident where he verbally assaulted a patient," Brad said, consulting his notes with theatrical precision. "The incident required his supervisor to physically remove him from the emergency department."
The words hit like physical blows. I wanted to explain about the racist slur, about watching someone attack Tasha, about the red haze that had descended when I'd heard that word. But the truth was complicated, and Brad was painting a picture in broad, damning strokes.
"Furthermore," Brad continued, his voice taking on a note of false concern, "Mr. Crawford is a combat veteran who has acknowledged struggles with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
While we certainly respect his service, the question before this court is whether an individual dealing with trauma-related mental health issues can provide the stable environment a child requires. "
Judge Morrison leaned forward slightly. "Mr. Crawford, is it true that you were involved in a workplace incident requiring disciplinary action?"
My throat felt like sandpaper. "Yes, Your Honor, but—"
"And do you suffer from PTSD related to your military service?"
The question hung in the air like a trap. Deny it, and Brad would produce evidence. Admit it, and I'd just handed him ammunition.
"Yes, Your Honor," I said quietly.
Brad's smile widened fractionally. "Your Honor, with the court's permission, I'd like to enter into evidence certain military incident reports that speak to the severity of Mr. Crawford's psychological trauma."
"Objection," I started to say, then realized I wasn't a lawyer and had no idea what I was objecting to.
"There's no one here to object, Mr. Crawford," Judge Morrison said unkindly. "Mr. Kensington, proceed."
Brad pulled out a folder with the kind of theatrical flair that suggested he'd been planning this moment. "Mr. Crawford, you served in Fallujah during Operation Phantom Fury, did you not?"
"Yes."
"And during that deployment, you were present during incidents involving the deaths of Lance Corporal Daniel Hernandez and Private First Class Luis Alvarez?"
The names hit me like shrapnel. I could see Hernandez's face, could hear his voice saying "I got him, Doc" before running into that kill zone. Could feel Alvarez's blood on my hands as I tried desperately to save him.
"Yes," I managed. Barely.
"Perhaps you could share with the court the details from this incident report," Brad said, sliding papers across the table toward me.
"The one documenting how you were physically restrained from attempting a rescue because, and I quote, 'Corpsman Crawford's emotional state posed a risk to mission success. '"
The words on the page blurred as I tried to read them. Somewhere in the gallery, I could hear Tasha's sharp intake of breath.
"Mr. Crawford?" Brad pressed, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to discuss the incident involving the civilian child caught in the crossfire? The one that led to your initial PTSD diagnosis?"
I was back there suddenly, in that dusty room, watching a little girl die while her parents screamed. The smell of cordite and blood. The weight of failure pressing down on me like a physical thing.
"Mr. Crawford," Judge Morrison said, and his voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are you all right?"
I forced myself to breathe, to stay present. Paige needed me here, in this moment, not lost in memories of a war that ended before she was even born.
"I'm fine, Your Honor," I said, though I could hear the tremor in my own voice.