Epilogue Two #2
“I can be there as soon as I wrap this up. Maybe an hour, hour and a half?”
Nora hums thoughtfully. “David, can I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“If you need to, I can take Michaela with me for the afternoon. To my home. It’s only a few blocks away, and I have a quiet space where she can decompress.
Plus a big dog who just adores kids.” A pause.
“I know it’s unconventional. But she trusts me.
And I’d rather she be somewhere comfortable than sitting in an office for hours. ”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering.” Her voice softens. “She’s had a difficult day, David. And I realize you’re at a critical point setting up your new firm. Let me help.”
Something cracks in my chest. The constant pressure of doing everything alone, of being everything Michaela needs while the world keeps demanding more—it’s exhausting. And here’s this woman, offering to carry some of that weight like it’s nothing.
“Can I talk to her first?”
“Of course.”
She puts Michaela on, and her voice is so small I almost don’t recognize it. “Daddy?”
“I’m right here, monster.”
There’s a sniffle. “Can I come home?”
“Yes. If you want to, you can. I just need a bit of time to get there. Nora—I mean, Principal Harrison said you can wait for me at her house. She has a dog. Is that OK with you?”
A long silence. Then a hitch in her breath. “I want to go with Principal Harrison. Is that OK?”
My chest goes tight again, but I manage not to let it show in my voice. “That’s absolutely OK. I think that’s a great idea.”
She breathes out, something between relief and exhaustion. “Will you come get me later?”
“I promise. I’ll come as soon as I can. You can call or text me whenever you want, remember?”
“OK.” She’s trying to be brave. I hear her swallow. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too.”
The line clicks, and Principal Harrison comes back. “I’ll text you my address.”
“Thank you, Nora,” I say, but the words aren’t enough. I want to convey my actual gratitude and shame, the helplessness of relying on strangers—even competent, generous ones. “I’ll keep trying to get hold of the nanny.”
“It’s really no trouble. We’ll see you after work.”
I disconnect the call and take a steadying breath. When I turn back toward the conference room, Caleb is already standing in the doorway, a look of concern etched into his face.
“Something happen with Michaela?”
“Yes. But it’s handled for now. Principal Harrison’s taking Michaela to her house until I can pick her up.”
Something flickers across Caleb’s face—curiosity, maybe, or amusement—but he doesn’t comment. “Do you need to leave?”
“Not right away. But as soon as I’m able.”
“OK. In that case, get in there and help me close this deal, and then we’ll see what we can reschedule.”
I follow Caleb into the conference room. His posture is bracing for impact. Our founder client sits at the head of the table, arms folded tight enough to blanch the knuckles, while our new associate looks like he might throw up.
“I understand that our terms are strict,” I say, sliding into my chair and catching the tail end of whatever meltdown has just occurred. “But they’re industry standard, and we structured them to protect your interests as much as ours.”
The founder glares at me with the moral outrage of someone who eats founders for breakfast on Twitter but cries during the Apple keynote.
“I just want to ensure that Kingsley & Kingsley isn’t going to screw us down the line.
I’ve had attorneys pivot their loyalty before.
It’s always the startups that get burned. ”
For the next thirty minutes, I perform the role of confident attorney, charming partner, consummate professional.
I answer questions and sprinkle in the right mix of empathy and unyielding logic, but beneath it all my brain is somewhere else, cycling through disaster scenarios involving Kelsie showing up at field trips or texting Michaela directly or, God forbid, making a scene in the middle of a swim meet.
It’s a slog. But when the signature is finally on the agreement, the handshake happens, and the founder leaves, I don’t even wait for the door to close.
“Are you OK?” Caleb asks.
I shake my head. “Not even a little.”
He starts to say something, but I’m already halfway down the hall to my office. I stare at the filing on my screen, the legalese a taunt, and I feel something break loose inside. Rage, mostly, but also a cold, animal fear.
I dial the nanny again while I throw files into my bag. Caleb enters my office and sees the filings on my screen.
The call goes to voicemail.
Shit.
I grab my keys.
“I need to—”
“Go,” Caleb says before I can finish. “And David? We’re going to beat this.”
I wish I believed him.
NORA
The house is quiet when I check on Michaela again.
She’s curled up on my guest bed, shoes kicked off, her face slack with the exhausted peace that only comes after crying yourself out. My golden retriever rests beside her like a giant teddy bear, her fingers curled into his fur.
I pull the quilt up over her shoulders—the one my grandmother made, soft from decades of washing—and stand there for a moment, watching her breathe.
Eight years old. Eight years old and dealing with things no child should have to process.
I tried to explain when she asked. Tried to find words for a situation I barely understand myself.
Her mother wants to see her. Her mother left when she was very small, but now she wants to come back.
Sometimes grown-ups make choices they regret, and sometimes they try to fix those choices, even when it’s complicated.
Michaela had listened with those serious dark eyes—so much like her father’s—and then asked the question I couldn’t answer:
“But why did she leave in the first place?”
I didn’t know, couldn’t even understand if I did. I’m not sure anyone could.
She cried after that. Not loud, dramatic sobs, but quiet tears that seemed to leak out despite her best efforts to hold them back.
I’d sat with her on the couch, not touching at first—some children don’t want to be touched when they’re upset—until she’d eventually leaned into my side and let me put an arm around her.
“My dad works really hard,” she’d said, voice muffled against my sweater. “He’s always there for everything. Every school play and every swim meet, and every time I’m sick. If she wanted to be my mom, why didn’t she just... stay?”
I didn’t have an answer for that either.
Now I’m standing in my guest room doorway, wondering how I got here. Principal Nora Harrison, fifteen years in education, impeccable professional boundaries, currently babysitting a student in her personal residence because she couldn’t say no to the panic in David Kingsley’s voice.
The doorbell rings, and my heart does something inconvenient.
I take a breath, smooth my hair—why am I smoothing my hair?—and go to answer it.
David is standing on my porch, looking like a man who’s been holding himself together through sheer force of will and is approximately three seconds from collapse. His tie is loosened, his hair disheveled, and there’s a tightness around his eyes that speaks to hours of suppressed panic.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m sorry it took so long. The meeting ran over, and then there was paperwork, and—”
“It’s fine. Come in.”
He steps inside, and I watch him take in my space—the cluttered bookshelves, the half-finished puzzle on the coffee table, the comfortable chaos of a life lived alone.
It’s nothing like what I imagine his world looks like.
No designer furniture, no professional cleaning service.
Just a woman’s home, worn soft around the edges.
“Where is she?”
“Guest room. She fell asleep about an hour ago.” I lead him down the hallway, stopping at the doorway.
My dog lifts his eyes, but doesn’t move, too busy being a little girl’s comfort.
“She had a rough afternoon. We talked, she cried. I tried to explain what’s happening, but.
..” I shake my head. “I’m not sure I understand it well enough to explain it to an eight-year-old. ”
David stands in the doorway, looking at his daughter’s sleeping form, and something in his expression cracks.
“What did you tell her?”
“That I didn’t know why Kelsie was back. That sometimes grown-ups make choices they regret.” I pause. “Was that wrong?”
“No.” His voice is rough. “It’s better than anything I’ve come up with.”
He doesn’t move from the doorway. Just stands there, shoulders rigid, jaw tight.
“Do you want some tea?” I offer. “You look like you could use a minute before you wake her.”
He nods without speaking and follows me to the kitchen. I put the kettle on and lean against the counter while he stands next to the table.
“My father called this morning,” he says. “Right before the school did. Kelsie filed a petition to have her parental rights reinstated. She’s claiming she was coerced into signing them away.”
“Can she do that?”
“Apparently. She’s arguing postpartum depression, mental incompetence, undue pressure from my father when he drew up the paperwork.
” His hands clench on the table. “And then—not even an hour later—she shows up at Michaela’s school trying to take her.
Like filing the petition wasn’t enough. Like she had to prove she was serious by traumatizing our daughter in person. ”
“David—”
“I’ve done everything right.” His voice cracks.
“Every school event. Every bedtime story. Every nightmare and scraped knee, and bad day. I rearranged my entire career so I could be home for dinner. And now Kelsie gets to waltz back in because she ‘got healthy’ and ‘deserves a second chance’?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“What about Michaela’s chance? What about her stability?
Kelsie was never good to her. God, I always knew she was selfish. But I never thought she’d be—”
“The court will see what kind of father you are.”