Chapter 20 #2
"What does this mean, exactly?" I ask. I can feel my eye involuntarily twitching. I touch it to see if I can make it stop.
"Jessica is claiming that your relationship with Tyler is inappropriate and potentially harmful," Patricia explains.
"She's requesting that during Logan's parenting time, your contact with Tyler be limited to public settings only—no overnight stays for you when Tyler is present, no participation in parental activities like bedtime routines, doctors' appointments, or school functions. "
Logan, returning with four mugs of coffee, nearly drops the tray. "That's fucking ridiculous."
"There’s more," Mara says, her voice surprisingly gentle as she points to another section of the document. "She's requesting temporary emergency orders until the court makes a final decision."
"Emergency orders?" I repeat, my fingers going numb around my warm coffee mug. “What does that mean?”
"She's arguing that continued exposure to your relationship is causing immediate emotional harm to Tyler," Patricia explains. "If granted, these temporary orders would go into effect immediately if the magistrate agrees."
Logan sits heavily beside me, his knee pressing against mine under the table. "Can she do this?"
"She can try." Patricia sips her coffee, grimacing slightly at its strength. "But I think we have good grounds to fight it. The 'evidence' she's presenting is thin—primarily Tyler's use of the term 'bonus mommy' and some anecdotal claims that he's confused about your role."
"We've never encouraged that term," I say quickly. "Like I told you, he came up with it on his own."
"I believe you," Patricia assures me. "And we'll make that clear in our response. But we need to be prepared for Jessica to paint this in the worst possible light."
Logan's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing hard. "So what do we do?"
Patricia and Mara exchange glances. "We have a few options," Patricia begins.
"We can fight this head-on, presenting evidence of how positive Reese's presence has been in Tyler's life.
We can request a psychological evaluation to demonstrate that Tyler isn't experiencing confusion or distress.
Or we can try to negotiate—perhaps agree to some minor restrictions to avoid a prolonged court battle. "
"I'm not compromising on this," Logan says immediately, his voice hard. "She doesn't get to dictate who's in my life or Tyler's life."
"Logan," I say quietly, my first word in several minutes. Three pairs of eyes turn to me. "Maybe we should consider what's best for Tyler right now. Not just what we want."
His eyes flash. "What's best for Tyler is stability. People who love him. That includes you."
"I know, but—" I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. "Fighting this aggressively might just escalate things. Make it uglier. More public. I don’t want that if we can avoid it."
Patricia nods approvingly. "There's wisdom in that approach. Courts generally respond better to parents who demonstrate they can put their child's needs above their own emotions."
"So we just roll over? Let her win?" Logan's frustration is palpable.
"Not at all," I say, surprising myself with my calm. "We fight smart, not hard. We show we're reasonable adults who care about Tyler's well-being above all else."
The conversation continues, legal terms flowing around me—affidavits, motions, hearings. The kitchen table has become the command center for a battle I never wanted to fight.
Through it all, I feel a strange clarity emerging from my fear.
Yes, I'm terrified of what this is going to put us through.
Yes, the public humiliation stings like hell.
But underneath that is something more solid and true.
I picture Tyler's face when he ran to me at Christmas, the trust in his eyes when he asked me to read him a story, the way he hugs me.
Those moments matter. They're worth fighting for, even if I have to do it quietly, strategically, without the kind of rage that's coursing through Logan right now. I don’t want to be full of the resentment and anger I’m entitled to.
As Patricia and Mara pack up their materials, scheduling our next steps and promising to file our response by Monday afternoon, I turn to Logan. His profile is sharp in the afternoon light, his gaze fixed, the muscle in his jaw still rigid with tension.
"This is just the beginning, isn't it?" I ask quietly.
Patricia, overhearing, nods grimly. "I'm afraid so. These cases rarely resolve quickly or cleanly."
After they leave, Logan and I sit in silence at the cluttered table. He suddenly looks exhausted, his shoulders slumping, the anger giving way to a bone-deep weariness I recognize from the aftermath of particularly tough losses.
"I'm sorry," he says finally. "For bringing all this into your life."
"Don't." I squeeze his hand, keeping my voice steady.
He studies my face, searching for doubt or regret. "Thank you for doing this with me. You can’t possibly know how grateful I am for you. For us."
"I know." And I do know, with a certainty that surprises me. Despite the headlines, the legal threats, the public dissection of our relationship, that truth remains solid: Logan loves me. I love him. We love Tyler.
Everything else is just noise.
"Together," Logan invokes our mantra, bringing my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against my knuckles.