My ex-wife, Rebecca Hale, sat ten feet away from me with her attorney beside her, dabbing at her eyes with a folded tissue that never seemed to get wet. She wore the navy dress she used for funerals and depositions. Her hair was pinned perfectly. Her voice, when she spoke, broke in all the right places.
“Your Honor,” she whispered, “I am terrified for my daughter. Nathan has anger issues. Our child wakes up screaming. She flinches when men speak loudly. She has been traumatized by him.”
I looked at our daughter, Lily, sitting beside the court-appointed child advocate. She was five years old, small for her age, with pink sneakers that lit up when she moved her feet. Her hands were clenched around a stuffed rabbit I had bought her at the zoo.
I had not seen her in forty-three days.
Forty-three days of ignored calls. Forty-three days of supervised visitation requests denied. Forty-three days of Rebecca posting smiling pictures online while telling the court Lily was “too fragile” to be near me.
