My Dad Sued For Custody So I Handed The Judge A Folder
Part 1
The smell of industrial floor wax always makes my stomach turn.
It was the first thing that hit me when Brian pushed the heavy glass doors of the courthouse open.
My uncle adjusted his tie for the fourth time since we left the parking lot.
His knuckles were completely white gripping the leather handle of his briefcase.
I kept my hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets to hide the shaking.
We walked down the long corridor toward Room 302 without saying a single word.
There was nothing left to discuss anyway.
Brenda had been in the ground for exactly six weeks.
My mother fought until her very last breath before her heart finally gave out.
She left behind a shoebox full of medical bills and a life insurance policy meant to keep a roof over my head.
That money was the only reason Craig showed up today.
I hadn’t seen the man who contributed half my DNA since I was three years old.
He had vanished from our lives without a trace.
Now he was sitting on a wooden bench outside the courtroom.
I wouldn’t have even recognized him if not for the faded Polaroid Brenda kept hidden under her bed.
He wore a cheap gray suit that hung off his shoulders.
His knee bounced rapidly against the floor tiles like a metronome.
He didn’t look up when we approached the heavy oak doors.
Brian placed a heavy hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
I focused on the scuffed toes of my dress shoes instead of the stranger sitting ten feet away.
The bailiff opened the doors and motioned for us to enter.
The courtroom felt freezing despite the heavy wool sweater Brenda had knitted for me last Christmas.
Craig’s lawyer was already unpacking thick manila folders on the petitioner’s table.
They looked incredibly confident for people trying to steal a fourteen-year-old boy.
The judge walked in and slammed her gavel against the wooden block.
She adjusted her reading glasses and stared down at the documents in front of her.
Craig stood up straighter and smoothed the front of his jacket.
His lawyer began the opening statement with practiced precision.
She painted a tragic picture of a father desperately trying to reconnect with his lost son.
I pressed my fingernails into my palms until they left deep crescent moons.
Then it was Craig’s turn to speak.
He stood at the podium and unleashed twelve unbroken minutes of absolute fiction.
He told the judge about my supposed love for soccer.
I have never touched a soccer ball in my entire life because I play baseball.
He brought up a golden retriever named Buster that we allegedly adopted together.
Brenda was severely allergic to animal dander and we never owned a dog.
He even wiped a fake tear from his eye while describing the hospital where I was born.
The facility he named had been demolished three years before my actual birth date.
The judge took copious notes on a yellow legal pad while he spun his web.
Craig’s lawyer nodded along in solemn agreement with every fabricated syllable.
Brian stared straight ahead with a jaw so clenched I thought his teeth might crack.
My chest grew tighter with every blatant lie echoing off the wood-paneled walls.
I stayed completely silent and let him dig the hole deeper.
The judge finally looked up from her notes and fixed her gaze on Craig.
“Sir,” she said.
“Why do you believe you should have emergency custody of your son?”
Craig turned his head and looked directly at me for the very first time today.
His eyes were completely empty of anything resembling affection.
“Because I’m his father,” Craig answered smoothly.
“And every boy needs his father.”
The heavy silence in the courtroom stretched out for an agonizing eternity.
The judge shifted her attention over to our side of the room.
“Would you like to respond to the petitioner’s statement?” she asked.
Brian leaned forward to speak on my behalf.
I placed my hand gently over his to stop him.
I looked at the thick leather portfolio resting in my uncle’s lap.
It contained the plain manila folder I had handed him at the breakfast table this morning.
Nobody else in the room knew what was inside it yet.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said.
I stood up and looked directly at the stranger who called himself my father.
