Chapter Thirteen

I wore my best blouse.

The blue one. The one I used to wear to Sunday services and my job at the chiropractor’s office, back when dressing right felt like a joy instead of preparing for war.

It didn’t fit right anymore. Pulled tight across my stomach. Tugged at my shoulders. No matter how I adjusted it, I still looked like a fraud in the mirror. I pulled my hair into a low knot. Smoothed the blouse again. Smile enough, and no one would see the cracks. Fake it till you make it.

I did my makeup for the first time in two years. Old powder crumbling at the edges. Lipstick two shades too pale, a little too dry.

Hugh would have asked what happened to me—not cruelly, just puzzled.

I hadn’t replaced anything since he died. Same old lipstick. Same old foundation. Same bottle of mascara.

He used to take me to the salon for anniversary gifts. Nails buffed, hair trimmed into clean, shining lines. Then we’d drive across the border to Vancouver for what he called An International Night On the Town. I hadn’t been to the salon since the funeral.

Bianca never would have let me leave the house.

She’d called, over and over, telling me I didn’t have a choice whether she came to the courthouse or not. Only agreed to stay away when I started crying. I hadn’t spoken to her since. Just the sound of her voice that night, and me sobbing into the phone, begging her not to come.

Now she was calling again, just as Sam and I were walking out the door.

“Bianca, I told you—”

“You’re not doing this without me. I’ll meet you at the courthouse. I’m on my way.”

“Don’t. It’s not going to matter anyway.”

“Are you really doing this alone on purpose? Let me help you.”

“I’ve told you not to come. Please respect my wishes.”

“Your wishes are stupid. How can I respect them?”

I said nothing, just held the phone against my ear as I led Sam out to my Subaru.

“Fine. I won’t come. Do it your way. Whatever.”

And she hung up.

The courthouse was too hot. Not the sweet warmth of spring creeping back into the air — but a thick, heavy heat, trapped under old ceilings and flickering fluorescent lights, seeping into the seams of my clothes.

I shifted in my chair, trying to breathe, feeling sweat prick along my spine under the too-tight blouse. It used to make me feel pretty. Now I just felt like a balloon stuffed into polite blue fabric.

I dabbed at my forehead with a crumpled tissue. Tried not to think about whether anyone could smell me. Tried not to think about the way my feet throbbed inside my scuffed heels, toes pinched and cramping already.

I smoothed the blouse down again, uselessly, and pretended the room wasn’t closing in.

Sitting on my lap, Sam clung to my hand, her little fingers damp against mine. Her face was pale, serious.

"I don't want you to be alone," she whispered.

The words speared straight through me.

"I won’t be," I lied. "I’ll see you soon."

She reached up and pushed my cheek until I was looking at her instead of down the hall, waiting to be called.

“Don’t worry. If you gotta cry, you can, but then you gotta get back up again.”

It sounded exactly like something Ziya would say. And it broke my heart.

Stacey appeared, taking Sam’s hand with a practiced smile.

I let them go. Watched them disappear down the hallway longer than I should have.

A few minutes later, my lawyer, Denise Wu, came to get me. Bianca had been right. I didn’t like her. Not one bit. But as Bianca had always said, “When it comes to hiring a lawyer, you’re not hiring them to be your best friend, you’re hiring them to win your case.”

She was tall, severe, and dressed like she’d been laminated. Not a single crease in her suit, not a single strand of hair out of place. She walked like she was already disappointed in how things would go.

She led me down another too-hot hallway into the judge’s chambers—a long narrow room with brown carpeting, a tired window unit humming in the corner, and a scattering of folding chairs that looked borrowed from a church basement. No jury box. No polished benches. Just a long battered table we would all sit around.

Denise sat stiffly beside me, across the table from Naveen and his lawyer—a shark of a man in a tailored gray suit. The judge took his place at the head, expression unreadable.

Directly across from me, Naveen sat, the picture of gentle concern. His expression was open, affable. Reassuring, if you didn’t know better. He looked immaculate. Again. Always.

I kept my palms flat against my skirt, willing them not to sweat, not to shake.

The judge—a heavyset man with thinning hair—thumbed through a stack of papers without looking at either of us. Beside one folder sat a sealed envelope, crisp and official. I recognized the letterhead from Ziya’s lawyer.

They hadn’t shown up in person. Just sent the note.

Denise passed it across the table with a neutral efficiency, but something in her jaw tightened.

I didn’t blame her. It felt like being left behind. Again.

"We're here today to assess final custody determination of Samara Shivandasi," the jude said.

Denise rose, papers held loosely in her hand.

"Your Honor," she said, crisp but polite, "Ms. Brooks has complied fully with all prior court directives. All required documentation has been filed—initially and, when necessary, refiled—to correct administrative discrepancies outside her control. Included are signed affidavits from Dr. Paula Hern and Diana McLeod, Samara’s pediatrician and caretaker respectively, as well as proof of residence, financial solvency, and documentation of consistent educational support.”

She placed a slim stack of papers onto the table with quiet finality.

The judge glanced at her over his reading glasses, noncommittal. “Noted for the record. These documents have been reviewed? Let it show that you’ve also corrected the clerical mismatch from the previous filing.”

I smiled until my cheeks ached. Sat so still my toes cramped inside my shoes. Sweat prickled under my arms, dampening the already-tight blouse.

"Ms. Brooks was named by the minor child's mother, Ms. Jnaneshwari Shivdasani, as the designated secondary guardian in the event of incapacity," Denise said. "This designation was formally documented and notarized prior to Ms. Shivdasani’s hospitalization."

The judge tapped his pen once against the desk. A slow, deliberate sound.

"And the primary guardian?" he asked.

"Ms. Meg Walker," Denise said smoothly. "Despite all reasonable efforts, she has not been located. Law enforcement and private investigators have been unsuccessful. In her absence, Ms. Brooks assumed temporary guardianship under this court’s emergency authorization."

The judge nodded slowly. Still not committing to anything. Still weighing whether he could trust a woman who looked like she was already losing.

Denise continued, composed and crisp, "Ms. Brooks has maintained a stable residence for the child. She has provided consistent, documented care. She has secured strong character references from multiple community members, including the child’s pediatrician and longtime caretakers. She has no criminal record, no substance abuse history, and no outstanding financial liabilities. She has proactively complied with every court-ordered requirement to date."

The judge nodded slightly, already reaching for another file. He flipped it open with a deliberate sort of weariness, as if this too were one more step in a process he’d walked a thousand times.

"I have a motion on file from counsel for Mr. Shivdasani," the judge said, voice as dry as old paper. "It raises concerns regarding the petitioner’s emotional and financial stability."

He set the folder down with a soft thud.

This wasn’t just strategy. It was dissection.

And I was the one being carved open.

Naveen’s lawyer rose with a pleasant, impersonal smile.

“Your Honor, I find it notable that Ms. Shivdasani’s own legal team—who drafted the guardianship documents—declined to appear in person. It raises questions as to how strongly they intended the petition to be pursued.”

"For the court’s record," he continued, "we have submitted documentation outlining ongoing concerns regarding Ms. Brooks’s fitness to care for the minor child. This includes the recent loss of her husband, her current unemployment, limited financial stability, and noted social isolation. Our client’s sole concern is the child’s wellbeing, and ensuring she is placed in the most stable environment possible."

Each word landed sharper than the last.  He knew exactly where to cut. Not my failures or my mistakes, but my grief and loneliness. He saw them. And he offered them up like appetizers.

I wondered who had spoken against me. Which neighbor had nodded, quietly, that maybe Sam would be better off.

I kept smiling. My mouth felt calcified into place, a rictus of politeness.

Sweat prickled along my scalp, sliding down the nape of my neck, soaking into the already-stained fabric of my blouse. My heels pinched hard against my feet, every muscle in my body begging to move, to flee, to do anything but sit here and take this.

The judge shuffled the papers again, slow and deliberate, and I could feel the moment before he spoke. Like the pause before a hammer drops.

"Given the seriousness of the concerns raised," he said, "the court will require an independent psychological evaluation of Ms. Brooks within thirty days."

Something inside me twisted—vicious and sharp, a tight, cold knot just under my ribs. Terror and fury tangled so tightly I couldn’t tell them apart.

A psych evaluation. As if grief made me dangerous. As if every loss I’d survived was now a mark against me.

It wasn’t just fear. It was shame. They’d peeled me open and decided I was unfit at the core. Everything that happened next was just a formality. They’d already decided.

Denise moved immediately, stepping forward with a professionalism that almost masked the steel underneath.

"We request that the evaluation be conducted by a neutral third party agreed upon by both sides," she said, voice firm, "and that the child’s current placement remain undisturbed pending the evaluation and full review of the findings."

The judge nodded once, absently, a bureaucratic flick of motion that meant nothing. "Noted," he said, and banged the gavel down with a dull crack that sounded more like the breaking of something than the ending of anything.

“This court will reconvene upon receipt of the evaluation report. Counsel will be notified,” he added, gaze already back on the paperwork as he signed documents, stamped them, then pushed them aside without looking up. “You’re excused.”

I stood because Denise did, because my body understood it was expected, not because I had any strength left. Blood rushed out of my head so fast my knees almost buckled. Denise’s hand brushed my elbow, just lightly, anchoring me. I focused on the feel of it, the clean press of her fingers against the thin fabric of my sleeve, instead of the way the floor seemed to tilt under my feet.

Across the room, Naveen leaned in, murmuring something low to his attorney. His expression was one of regret. Deep, pained, manufactured regret. The kind of regret that wasn’t sorry at all.

The courtroom door creaked open behind us. A clerk stepped halfway in, calling, “Next case,” into the hallway.

I kept my face smooth. Pleasant. Appropriate. Because if I gave them anything else—fear, rage, grief—it would be taken and used against me before the words even left my mouth.

In the hallway, Denise walked a few paces with me before checking her watch. “You’ll hear from the court once the evaluator is appointed. Try not to miss any calls.”

I nodded, the motion barely holding shape.

“If anything changes—contact me directly.” Her tone stayed perfectly even, professional to the last. She didn’t touch my arm again. Didn’t ask how I was holding up. That wasn’t her job.

And then she was gone.