Douglas stood and began presenting Barrett’s request for primary custody — the stone house in Upper Arlington, the private-school tuition, the investment accounts, the comfortable routine Barrett claimed he could provide.

He had barely finished when the heavy courtroom doors swung open, and I stepped inside holding the hands of our eight-year-old sons.

Wyatt wore a small navy blazer and stared at the floor. Emmett gripped my hand so hard his knuckles had gone pale.

Barrett’s composure slipped the moment he saw us together.

Paige leaned toward him. “Why on earth did she bring the boys?”

Judge Lawson caught it. “Ms. Delancy, I’ve warned you once about speaking out of turn.”