Nothing else there 7

The courtroom smells like old wood and recycled air. I sit at a table with Janet Smith — pro bono, legal aid referral, the kind of lawyer who takes cases she knows she’ll probably lose because someone has to.

Across the aisle, Dominic sits with two attorneys from Marshall & Whitfield who bill more per hour than my mother earns in a week. He looks calm, like a man attending a formality.

Janet leans toward me before we start. “Their filing is strong. Residential stability, financial capacity, continuity. They’ve framed your departure as voluntary.”

“I was pushed out. There was another woman going through my kitchen cabinets before I finished packing.”

“I know.” She holds my eyes. “But on paper, you left yesterday. And this gets decided on paper.”

The judge is a woman in her sixties with reading glasses and a voice that fills the room without effort. She looks at Dominic’s lead attorney. “Counsel, go ahead.”

He stands, buttoning his jacket. “Your Honor, Mr. Carraway has provided a stable, consistent home environment for the child since birth. Lily attends an excellent school. She has an established social circle, and a father who has ensured her physical, educational, and emotional needs are met without interruption…”

He talks for eleven minutes. He says consistent four times.

He doesn’t mention Camille. He doesn’t mention the woman who was going through my home while I was still there.

The judge turns to Janet. “Counsel?”

Janet stands. She’s shorter than Dominic’s attorney by a foot. Her suit is off the rack. It doesn’t matter — her voice fills the room just fine.

“Your Honor, Mrs. Carraway has been Lily’s primary caregiver for twelve years. She is the parent who knows Lily’s schedule, her medical history, her teachers’ names, her allergies, what she eats for breakfast, what stories she needs before sleep…”

Seven minutes against eleven. The judge looks at Dominic’s attorney. “Is there a new partner currently residing in the home?”

“Mr. Carraway’s personal relationships are not relevant to his capacity as a—”

“I’ll decide what’s relevant, counselor. Is there a new partner in the home?”

A pause. “Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge makes a note and I let myself hope. I should know better. But my hands are shaking under the table and for one stupid second I let myself believe a note on a page means something.

“I’ve reviewed both filings,” the judge says. She removes her glasses. “This court’s primary concern is the welfare and stability of the minor child.”

My hands go still in my lap.

“At this time, I’m granting temporary primary custody to the father.”

The blade falls in language that sounds fair. Residential stability. Financial security. Minimal disruption to the child’s routine. Then the word that guts me: “The mother is granted a visitation — two sessions per week.”

Janet squeezes my arm under the table, but I don’t move. I sit perfectly still while the room empties because if I move I will come apart and I will not give Dominic the satisfaction of watching.

He passes my table on the way out. Doesn’t look at me, buttoning his jacket and already on his phone.

Outside, the October air hits my face and I lean against the stone wall and press my palms flat into it. The stone is cold and rough and I push until my fingers ache because the pain is the only thing I can control right now.

Footsteps on the stairs. I know before I look.

Nick. Because he said he’d be here and he was — I spotted him in the back row when I turned once during the proceedings. Coat folded over his knee. Watching his brother’s lawyers take my life apart with an expression I couldn’t read from across the room.

His jaw is tight, hands in pockets but I can see the fists through the fabric.

He stands beside me against the wall and says nothing for a long time. The silence is the kindest thing anyone has offered me in weeks — no advice, no pity, no one telling me to go back.

Just a man standing next to me while I hold myself together with my fingernails pressed into stone.

“There’s a place nearby,” he says quietly. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

I should have said no. I should have nodded and gotten in the elevator and gone back to the guest room and the lavender sachets and the narrow bed.

But the idea of walking out of this building alone and getting on the subway alone and sitting in that guest room alone makes my whole body feel like it’s made of something that will shatter if nobody is watching it.

“Okay,” I say, and he doesn’t smile, doesn’t make it into something.

We walk to a small restaurant on a side street. I order soup I don’t touch. He orders coffee he doesn’t drink. Steam rises between us. “What did Janet say?”

“Appeal. Evidence of changed circumstances.” I turn the spoon without lifting it. “Stable housing. Income. A life that looks different on paper than it does right now.”

“And right now?”

“Right now I have six hundred dollars from my mother and a bag of jewelry I took from my own dresser.” I almost smile, but it doesn’t reach anywhere. “I haven’t worked in twelve years, Nick, I can’t compete with him. He has the house, the billions, the name. I have nothing a judge would weigh against that.”

He’s quiet. Then: “You need to eat. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” His voice is gentle but his eyes don’t leave mine. “I sat in that courtroom and watched you not move for an hour. You haven’t touched the soup.” He pauses. “And you keep putting your hand on your stomach when you think no one’s looking.”

My hand freezes on the table. I didn’t realize I was doing it — this unconscious gesture I’ve been making for weeks, checking, always checking. I thought I was careful. I thought nobody noticed.

“Aria…” His voice drops like he’s holding something with both hands. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

I could deflect. Change the subject. I’ve been lying for weeks — to Dominic, to Lily, to the legal aid counselor. To everyone who’s looked at me and seen a woman falling apart without realizing she’s also growing two lives inside her and telling no one.

But I’m so tired. And he’s the first person who’s looked closely enough to see what I’ve been hiding under loose sweaters and crossed arms.

“Seventeen weeks.” My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. “Twin boys.”

His hand stills on the table and I watch him process it. His eyes drop to my stomach, back to my face then to my stomach again. Like he’s running the numbers twice to make sure they’re real.

His brother’s twins. Growing inside a woman his brother just discarded.