By November, Ellie had started waking with stomachaches.
Her doctor found no immediate medical cause that explained every episode.
We discussed stress, sleep, and how the symptoms were affecting school.
I told Scott about the appointment.
He accused me of exaggerating the problem for court.
I forwarded the ordinary visit summary and suggested we talk with a counselor.
Eventually he agreed.
The counselor met with the children separately and together, with appropriate parental permissions and boundaries about privacy.
She was not there to select a favorite parent.
She was there to help Ben and Ellie speak without worrying that every sentence would appear in an argument.
After the first session, Ellie asked to get ice cream.
It was cold outside.
We went anyway.
She stared at her cup of mint chocolate chip.
“I'm tired of Dad saying you're trying to steal us.”
I waited.
“And I'm tired of you looking scared every time he calls.”
That hurt because it was true.
“I'll work on that,” I said.
She picked at the ice cream.
“I don't want to be a witness.”
“You aren't responsible for proving anything,” I told her.
“The adults will handle the case.”
“Even if I don't tell you what Dad says?”
“You can always tell me something that worries you. But I won't ask you to spy.”
She breathed out slowly.
At the next parenting meeting, the counselor recommended that Scott and I give the children the same basic explanations.
No statements that the judge had already chosen a parent.
No predictions about where they would permanently live.
No questioning them about the other parent's personal life.
Scott resisted the wording about predictions.
He said he was simply being honest.
The counselor asked how certain he could be before a final order existed.
He had no answer.
We agreed to a short script.
Your parents are working out two households. The adults and the court will decide the schedule. You are loved in both homes, and none of this is your job to fix.
It sounded awkward when Scott first said it.
It sounded awkward when I did too.
But Ben repeated it later when his friend asked whether his parents were fighting.
“It's adult paperwork,” he said.
I nearly laughed at the accuracy.
During the same period, my new job became real.
There was an employee badge with my photograph.
A payroll schedule.
A small desk beside a window.
I helped plan literacy programs and train new volunteers.
On my lunch breaks, I checked messages from the parenting application.
Most were about ordinary details.
An inhaler refill for Ben's seasonal symptoms.
A permission slip.
A winter coat left at Scott's apartment.
When we stayed on those subjects, communication worked.
At Thanksgiving, I hosted a small meal with Mara and the children.
Scott had them for part of the weekend under the agreed schedule.
He sent photographs of a pie Ben had helped bake.
I replied that it looked great.
A year earlier, I would have used that photograph to decide whether Scott was being kind or cruel to me.
Now I could appreciate that Ben had baked a pie.
The difference was quiet.
Nobody gave me an award for it.
On the Monday after Thanksgiving, Leah called with an update.
Scott's attorney had agreed to a structured settlement meeting once the accountant completed her analysis.
The financial records still needed clarification.
The house was still unresolved.
But the temporary parenting plan was functioning more consistently.
I thanked her.
After work, I bought a new folder.
The old blue box had become too full to close.
This folder was for school schedules and the children's activities.
I wanted a part of my life that did not exist only as evidence.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: The Accountant’s Report Put a Real Number on the Business Scott Had Called Practically Worthless
The Night Scott Put Divorce Papers Beside Our Dinner and Mistook My Signature for Surrender
Part 11 of 16
