Page 46 of Anatomy of Us
Zoe
My phone vibrates in my hand for the third time in the last minute.
I don’t dare call. I sit in my car in the club parking lot while the rest of my teammates are probably already out on the field. I skip training. I can’t breathe right enough to run.
I just stare at the screen like I can rewrite it with willpower.
Email from Yvonne. Subject line: “Decision issued. Call me as soon as you can.”
Five days waiting on the judge.
Five days of sleeping like trash, eating like trash, thinking like trash. Burning through my coach’s patience with my sloppy play. Risking the contract renewal that suddenly means nothing next to my son.
And now the decision sits in my inbox and I can’t open it.
I finally force a breath, pull my courage up by the roots, and dial my attorney. There’s no point delaying it. My hands shake anyway.
One ring. Two.
“Zoe,” Yvonne says. Her voice stays neutral, professional. No hint of good or bad. “Are you sitting down?”
My stomach drops.
“Yeah.”
“The judge has issued her order.”
“I saw your message,” I whisper.
“Nate gets one weekend every other week,” she says. “Friday evening to Sunday night.”
I can’t breathe.
“Zoe? Are you still there?”
“Every other week,” I repeat. “That’s… that’s more than he had.”
“Yes.”
“So he wins,” I exhale, sinking back against the seat and dragging a hand through my hair.
“No. Listen to me.” Yvonne’s tone sharpens. “Nate asked for fifty-fifty custody. He wanted Wesley half the time. He wanted alternating holidays, summers split down the middle, authority to veto decisions about school and health. He got none of that.”
Silence. I try to speak and nothing comes out.
“The judge gave him four days a month, Zoe,” Yvonne continues. “Four out of thirty. No decision-making power on anything major. No right to change your work schedule or your team travel. You keep full authority.”
“But before, he had nothing.” My voice cracks. “Before, it was supervised visits when I decided. That’s it.”
“Before, Nate hadn’t gone to court,” Yvonne says. “Before, he hadn’t filed a formal petition with exhibits and witnesses and a two-hundred-dollar-an-hour attorney. Zoe, this is a win. The language is clear. It recognizes your stability, your support network, Wesley’s well-being in your care. It specifically cites the Florida documentation and the pediatrician’s reports.”
“It doesn’t feel like a win,” I admit, pressing my forehead to the steering wheel.
“I know.” Her voice softens a notch. “It never feels like a win when you have to give something up. But believe me, Nate expected more. His attorney expected more. This is a loss for them.”
“And review? Is there a review?”
“In six months,” she admits, voice dropping low. “But don’t let that scare you. It’s standard. It won’t be a problem unless there’s a significant change in circumstances.”