Grant wore a charcoal suit tailored to perfection, freshly polished Italian shoes, and the heavy silver watch he’d bought weeks after telling me he couldn’t afford to send child support on time.

He looked calm, impossibly successful, flawlessly prepared — like a man who owned the room, the judge, and the air we were all breathing.

I wore a secondhand cream blazer over a simple black dress, a cold dread coiling in my gut. I had no attorney. I couldn’t afford one.

All I had was a frayed manila folder stuffed with school records, pediatric appointment summaries, rent receipts, work schedules, and printed text messages showing exactly how often Grant had failed to keep his promises to our son.

His attorney, Preston Carroway, rose and approached the bench with the predatory grace of a man paid a thousand dollars an hour to destroy lives.

“Your Honor, this hearing is not about whether Mrs. Bellamy possesses a basic maternal affection for her son,” Carroway began, his voice smooth and dripping with practiced condescension.