“I need the name of the most aggressive, ruthless family law attorney in Ontario,” I said, my voice steel. “Money is not an issue. I don’t want a mediator. I want a wartime consigliere.”
They thought they had broken him. They thought he was isolated, weak, and destitute.
They had forgotten one thing: he wasn’t an orphan.
By morning, the shock had hardened into purpose.
Michael sat at the small hotel desk, staring at nothing, while I watched my grandsons eat cereal on the bed—quiet, careful, as if afraid to take up too much space in a world that had already taken everything from them. No child should learn silence this early.
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