At the airport parking lot, I found my son sleeping in his car with his twins

That afternoon, we began.

Bank records. Emails. Text messages. The startup documents I had helped fund—signed under “temporary mental distress,” a phrase that now read like a trap in hindsight. Margaret’s team worked like surgeons, peeling back the narrative his wife’s family had constructed.

And then came the first crack.

A therapist’s report—conveniently cited in the restraining order—turned out to be based on a single phone consultation, booked and paid for by his wife’s brother. No clinical evaluation. No diagnosis. Just a suggestion, inflated into a weapon.

“Judges hate this,” Margaret said, a thin smile crossing her face. “It reeks of manipulation.”