Alex
Forty-one
A small hand grabs my arm before I’m fully awake, but when Eloise screams, “No!” the word comes out thin and panicked enough to pull me straight out of sleep.
I sit up and find her pressed against my side, tears streaking her cheeks, her Hello Kitty trapped between us.
Morning light filters through the curtains, turning my room pale gold, but whatever woke her is still alive behind her eyes.
“Hey,” I say, drawing her closer as she folds herself against my chest. “What happened?”
“I had another bad dream.” Her arms tighten around my waist, and I close my eyes for a second. This has become the shape of our mornings. The nightmares started the day Anastasia appeared, and every one of them seems to end the same way, no matter where the dream begins.
We never got over to the vineyard last weekend, even though I did successfully get my mother and Anastasia to leave that day. After her dance class, Eloise was so worried and upset that I took her home, and we cuddled on the couch and watched K-Pop Demon Hunters on repeat.
I smooth a hand over her hair and keep my voice quiet. “Was it about your mom again?”
She nods against my shirt. “She took me away and wouldn’t let me come home.”
I force myself not to react in a way she’ll have to manage. There are a hundred things I want to say, most of them born from anger and fear, but none of those would help a seven year old trying to understand why the woman who left her suddenly walked back into her life and said terrible things.
“That isn’t going to happen,” I tell her, holding her a little tighter. “You’re here with me.”
She only presses closer, as though proximity might keep the nightmare from becoming real.
The house remains quiet around us, too quiet for a school morning.
By now, she’d normally be arguing with me about breakfast, mismatched socks, or whether a dress pulled from the floor counts as clean.
Instead, I’m going to give her another moment to adjust before I push her toward the day.
Eloise hasn’t gone to school at all this week. She’s been home with Zara. Today I mostly cleared my schedule so I could be with her. Zara needs a break, even though I can’t give her the whole day. This week has been hard on all of us.
When I’m home, Eloise follows me from room to room.
If I leave for even a few minutes, she stays glued to Zara and refuses to let her out of sight.
Bedtime has become a negotiation of doors left open, lights left on, and some nights, as soon as I go to bed, she comes in.
I understand why she’s doing it, but understanding doesn’t make me any less helpless.
I rest my chin on top of her head while her breathing slowly evens out. The biggest problem isn’t Anastasia anymore. It’s Eloise’s fear, and unlike my mother or my ex-wife, I can’t confront it and tell it to get out of my house.
After a while, her grip loosens enough for her to tilt her face toward mine. “Are you going somewhere today?”
“I have one place to go this morning,” I say, brushing the hair off her damp cheek. “But I won’t be gone long, and Zara will be here.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
She nods and cuddles against me.
What she needs is someone who knows how to help a frightened child feel safe again. Carefully, without shifting her away, I reach for my phone on the nightstand.
Eloise notices and lifts her head. “Who are you calling?”
I kiss the top of her head and pull up Alaric’s number. “No one yet, but I have an idea about someone who can help us. Let’s go down and get you some breakfast.”
Reluctantly, she heads for the door, and I text Zara to ask once again for a favor. I get Eloise settled in the kitchen, and Zara comes up to stay with her.
“I’ll be right back,” I assure them both.
Back upstairs, I dial, and Alaric Dempsey answers before the second ring with a calm, easy, “Morning.”
“Good morning. I’m sorry to bother you this early,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Eloise.” I lean back against the headboard and look toward the window.
He doesn’t interrupt as I give him the broad strokes of what happened. I tell him about Anastasia showing up, what she told Eloise without consulting me, and the confrontation that followed. “She won’t leave my side,” I conclude. “She’s barely left the house all week.”
Alaric’s voice stays measured. “Nightmares?”
“Every night.” I drag a hand through my hair and force myself to say the rest plainly. “Always some version of the same thing. Anastasia takes her away, and she can’t come home.”
“And during the day?” he asks.
“If I’m home, she’s attached to me. If I leave, she’s attached to Zara.” The answer sounds worse out loud. “She hasn’t been going to school either.”
Another brief silence follows. I can practically hear him shifting into assessment mode, organizing the information and building a plan in the same quiet way he does with everything else.
“I’d like to see her,” he says.
Relief floods through me. “Today?”
“If you can bring her in.”
“Absolutely.”
He gives me a time, and I repeat it back while committing it to memory.
After I thank him and hang up, I dress and return to the kitchen. Eloise looks up as I enter. “Are we going somewhere?” she asks.
I brush a hand over her hair. “Yeah, sweetheart. We’re going to see Dr. Dempsey later.”
She seems to think about that for a moment before nodding, and the knot in my chest loosens slightly. One problem has a plan now. One problem has someone qualified to deal with it. What I still don’t have, though, are answers about Anastasia, and for those, I’ll see my lawyer this morning.
By the time I arrive at my lawyer’s office, leaving a slightly teary Eloise with Zara, I’ve replayed the last week so many times that I can practically recite it from memory.
Trevor Milton listens without interruption while I walk him through everything.
He already knows the background because he handled my divorce, so I don’t spend much time explaining the history.
Instead, I focus on what happened. Most importantly, I tell him about Eloise.
By the time I finish describing the nightmares, the panic, and her refusal to leave my side, he’s filled several pages with notes.
“Before this happened, how was she doing?” he asks.
That question cuts straight to the heart of the issue.
“She was thriving,” I tell him. “She loves school. She has friends and activities. She was happy.” Saying it out loud makes clear how quickly everything changed.
One unexpected visit from Anastasia managed to shake a child who had spent years building a secure life for herself in Paradise.
Trevor studies his notes for a moment before setting down his pen. “Alex, the first thing you need to understand is that the court won’t be focused on Anastasia. And it won’t be focused on you either. The court’s concern is Eloise. Everything begins and ends with what’s best for her.”
My shoulders relax as I nod.
“The court isn’t interested in rewarding or punishing either parent,” he continues.
“You’ve been her parent every day of her life.
Anastasia can’t walk in after years of absence and expect the court to ignore that.
If she wants a relationship with her daughter, she may be able to build one, but she’ll have to earn that.
” He pauses. “Judges place tremendous value on stability. They care about who has been doing the parenting, who has been meeting the child’s needs, and what arrangement serves the child’s wellbeing. ”
I nod. “I want a letter drafted to Anastasia’s attorney,” I tell him.
“I want it clear that Eloise is thriving in Paradise and that I’m not interested in disrupting her life.
She has a home here, a school here, and a support system here.
I’m not moving her to Toronto, and I’m not uprooting everything she’s built because Anastasia suddenly decided she wants to be involved. ”
Trevor makes a few more notes while I finish outlining my concerns. When I’m done, he sets down his pen and leans back. “What you’re asking for is entirely reasonable,” he says. “Eloise’s comfort, emotional wellbeing, and sense of security should carry significant weight.”
I remain silent, letting him continue.
“No judge is going to force a seven year old into an immediate parent-child relationship with someone she doesn’t know,” he says.
“If contact is going to happen, it should happen gradually and at a pace Eloise can tolerate. The focus should be on helping her feel safe, not satisfying Anastasia’s expectations. ”
He closes the file and slides it toward the corner of his desk.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “That sounds like exactly what I want.”
He nods. “Frankly, it’s the position I’d recommend if you were my brother.”
Hearing an experienced family lawyer tell me my instincts are right centers me in a way probably nothing else could.
A few minutes later, I leave the office carrying far less weight than I brought in.
The situation isn’t resolved, but I have professionals to help.
I don’t know if Anastasia and my mother are still in town.
I haven’t spoken with them, and I haven’t seen them.
But either way, difficult conversations lie ahead for me. Yet this feels under control.
So that means I can focus on helping Eloise feel better.
By the time we arrive at Alaric’s office that afternoon, Eloise has worked herself into a quiet kind of nervousness that worries me.
She isn’t crying or asking questions. She’s simply holding my hand so tightly that my fingers have started to lose circulation.
As we walk through the front door together, she stays close enough that her shoulder brushes my side with every step.
“It’s okay,” I assure her.