“Julian has primary legal custody until January fifteenth,” Martha said gently.

“If you go near the house or his school, Julian will use it to claim harassment.”

I stepped out of the car into the damp autumn air, the smell of wet oak leaves hanging by the curb.

I climbed the wooden stairs to my small rented room above the bakery, the faint smell of yeast and warm sugar drifting up through the floorboards.

On the card table in the middle of the little room, my tax documents and ledger copies sat stacked under a desk lamp.