Sloan dabbed the corner of her eye with a finger. I stared at her until she looked away. Then Hope stood up. "Mr. Callaway, " she said, walking toward the stand.
"You testified that Miss Barlo isolated herself. Is that correct? " "Yes. " "And refused help."
"Yes. " "And that you were so concerned you decided to pursue custody? " "Yes. " "Hope looked at her file."
"Where were you on March 18th in the early morning when Miss Barlo texted you that Lilia had a fever? " Julian blinked. Marcus shifted. Objection.
Irrelevant. It is directly relevant to Mr. Callaway's claim that my client refused help. Judge McCarthy nodded. Overruled.
Julian cleared his throat. I don't recall exactly. Hope clicked her pen. Would a hotel receipt refresh your memory?
Sloan's head came up. Julian's expression froze. Hope held up a document but didn't approach yet. She let the silence do its work.
Mr. Callaway, she said. Were you at the Carlyle Hotel with Miss Vaughn while your three-week old daughter had a fever and her mother was calling you for help? Marcus stood. Your honor, Judge McCarthy looked at Julian.
Answer the question. Julian's jaw twitched. I had a work event. It ran late in the early morning.
Hope nodded as if this made perfect sense. And Miss Vaughn was part of this work event. Sloan's hand slid off Julian's shoulder. Yes, Julian said.
Hope glanced at the screen where the video of me crying had been displayed. Your honor, we will return to the video presented by Mr. Rhodes. We believe context is important. The judge's gaze sharpened.
I would hope so. Hope turned a page. Mr. Callaway, when you recorded, Miss Barlo crying while holding Lilia. Had you just returned home after being unreachable for nearly 6 hours?
Julian didn't answer right away. The room noticed. I don't remember, he said. Hope smiled without warmth.
"That seems to happen a lot, " Marcus objected. The objection was sustained, but the first visible crack had appeared in the perfect facade of Julian's house.
When the judge called a short recess 20 minutes later, Julian stood too quickly. Sloan whispered something to him, and he shook his head sharply. I stayed seated because Lilia was starting to wake, her tiny face scrunching, her mouth opening in protest. I reached into the bag for her bottle.
Sloan approached me while Hope was talking to the clerk. You're only making this worse for yourself, she whispered. I didn't look up. You should sit down.
You think a couple of receipts will prove you are stable? He has the money. He has the house. He has the future.
I tested the milk's temperature on my wrist. And he has a mistress who thinks family court is a casting call. Her smile vanished for the first time that morning. I saw the woman under the cream dress.
Hard, grasping, angry. You lost him, she said. I fed Lilia, watching my daughter's tiny hand curl around my finger. No, I said.
I returned him. Sloan leaned so close her perfume filled my lungs. When this is over, Lilia will be in our home, she said. And she will learn who kept their calm and who broke down.
Then I looked at her. You just said our home. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her eyes. I shifted Lilia with one arm and with my free hand, I pressed the screen of my phone, which was lying face up on the table among my legal folders.
The voice recorder app was open. It was running. Sloan stared at it. The blood drained from her cheeks.
"Just then, " Hope returned. She glanced at my phone, then at Sloan. "How generous of you, " Hope said. Sloan backed away across the aisle.
Julian was watching us, confused. For once, he didn't understand what had just happened. That used to scare me. Now, it felt like oxygen.
The first time Julian missed a doctor's appointment, I made an excuse for him before anyone asked. "He's stuck at work, " I told the ultrasound technician. "I was 26 weeks pregnant. I sat on the edge of the examination table with cold gel on my belly, clutching my phone in one hand."
The ultrasound room was dim. Lilia's tiny profile was illuminated on the screen. Her nose, a clenched fist, the fast flicker of her heart. The technician smiled kindly.
"Do you want me to print an extra picture for him? " "Yes, " I said too quickly. "Please. " Julian didn't text.
Later that evening, he came home with a bottle of wine and a new watch. I stood in the kitchen holding the ultrasound picture like it was proof of something sacred. He kissed my cheek, glanced at the picture, and said, "Cute. " Then his phone rang, and he stepped out onto the balcony.
I watched him through the glass door. His shoulders relaxed. He laughed softly. Not the tired laugh he gave me, nor the polite laugh he reserved for clients.
This one had warmth. I told myself not to be dramatic. It was the phrase I swallowed most often during my pregnancy. Don't be dramatic when he forgot an appointment.
When he stopped touching me, when I found a receipt for two dinners at a restaurant he claimed to hate, when Sloan's name lit up his screen at 11:00 p. M. Under the contact name "Sloan Work. " when his mother Beatrice told me that men need space during a pregnancy too.
Don't make it all about you. She said once at lunch while I was trying not to fall asleep in my soup. Julian is under pressure. You should be grateful he's providing for the family.
Providing. He started using that word too. I'm providing he would say whenever I asked for his presence instead of his money. What more do you need?
I didn't know how to explain that love wasn't a mortgage payment, that fatherhood wasn't a bank transfer. That I didn't need a premium stroller if I had to push it alone. So, I stopped asking in terms that sounded emotional. I made lists.