The visitation center called on a Wednesday.
They had an opening the following Saturday at eleven.
The coordinator explained the rules: separate arrival times, no discussion of the case, no questioning Tommy about interviews, and staff present to observe and intervene when needed.
I wrote everything down.
When I told Tommy, he asked whether he had to sit on Lauren’s lap.
“No. You can choose whether you want a hug. You can also tell the supervisor if you need a break.”
“Can I leave?”
“The adults will follow the visit plan and keep you safe. If you feel uncomfortable, tell the staff. They will help.”
He nodded but did not touch his lunch.
Dr. Kim helped him prepare without rehearsing a speech. She encouraged him to choose an object to bring and one simple sentence he could use if he needed space.
Tommy chose his dinosaur.
His sentence was, “I need a break.”
He practiced it with me once.
Then he wanted to talk about baseball.
Saturday morning, I parked in the designated lot and checked in through the side entrance. Lauren had been told to arrive separately. I did not see her.
The staff member, Denise, knelt so she could speak to Tommy without towering over him.
“Would you like to see where the bathroom is before we start?”
He nodded.
She showed him the playroom, the water dispenser, and the quiet corner with beanbags. She explained that he could ask staff for help at any time.
I signed him in.
My hand lingered over the pen.
“Will you be nearby?” he asked.
“In the waiting area,” I said.
He took a breath and followed Denise.
I spent the next hour looking at a clock above a rack of old magazines.
When the session ended, Tommy came out with his dinosaur tucked under one arm.
He looked tired but calm enough to ask for a snack.
I did not ask what Lauren said.
In the car, he told me they had played a card game.
“Did you win?”
“Twice.”
“Nice work.”
He looked out the window.
“She cried.”
I kept both hands on the steering wheel.
“That may have been hard to see.”
“She said she misses me.”
“You can miss somebody and still need to feel safe.”
He nodded.
At home, he requested pancakes for dinner.
We made them shaped like uneven circles.
He ate three.
The center’s written summary arrived through the attorneys the following week. I read it with Priya rather than alone. It described Lauren becoming emotional and making a remark that shifted responsibility to Tommy for the family’s separation. Staff redirected her and reminded her of the rules.
The report did not say the entire visit had gone badly.
It noted that Lauren played appropriately for stretches and responded when staff asked her to change the subject.
I found that harder to process than a simple condemnation.
She could be gentle with him.
She could also make him afraid.
Those things could both be true.
Priya asked how Tommy behaved after the visit.
“He slept poorly that night. But he also asked when the next one was.”
“Did he say whether he wanted it?”
“He said he didn’t know.”
“Then say exactly that in your notes.”
I did.
The second visit was scheduled two weeks later. Lauren’s attorney requested longer sessions. Priya opposed an expansion until the investigation and therapeutic recommendations were clearer.
The court left the existing arrangement in place for the moment.
Denise, the visitation supervisor, asked me to attend a short orientation before the first session. The meeting had nothing to do with proving Lauren wrong. It was about giving Tommy predictable transitions.
She showed me the entrance reserved for one parent and the waiting area used by the other.
“Please don't linger outside looking for the other parent,” she said. “The separation is deliberate.”
“I'm not interested in seeing her.”
“Good. Then this should be easy.”
She explained that staff could document what happened during visits but could not promise to interpret every expression a child made. Reports would describe observable behavior and statements, not invent reasons.
I asked whether Tommy could bring a favorite toy.
“Yes, as long as it follows our safety rules.”
“What if he refuses to enter?”
“We'll work within the court order and the center's procedures. We don't solve distress by dragging a child into a room.”
I wrote that down.
She showed me a sample report with invented names. It recorded times, activities, staff redirections, and how the child left the session.
It was surprisingly plain.
Child played a matching game for fifteen minutes.*
Parent was reminded not to discuss litigation.*
Child requested water.*
There were no declarations about who loved whom.
I began to understand that plain records could be useful precisely because they were plain.
Afterward, I stopped at a bakery and bought two rolls. I brought one home for Tommy, who ate it while building a Lego spaceship.
“Is the place scary?” he asked.
“It's a building with games, books, and people trained to help with visits.”
“Do they make you talk?”
“You can tell them when you need a break.”
“Will they tell Mom everything I say?”
“They'll explain their rules to you. You can ask them about privacy.”
He thought about that and asked whether they had a dinosaur book.
“I didn't check.”
He frowned.
“That should be the first thing you check.”
The morning of the visit, he dressed himself and put his dinosaur in the front pocket of his backpack. He checked the zipper twice. In the car, he asked me to play the radio softly.
We drove past a construction site where workers were pouring concrete. Tommy watched the mixer turn.
“Does that ever stop?”
“When they're finished with the job.”
“Then it gets to rest.”
“Exactly.”
After the session, we went to a small café. He chose a grilled cheese sandwich, then asked whether he could sit facing the door. I moved to the other side of the booth.
He looked at the entrance several times during the meal.
I resisted the urge to ask why.
A waitress brought us extra napkins, and Tommy thanked her. He spent five minutes arranging french fries into letters.
“What does that say?” I asked.
“D-I-N-O.”
“Very educational.”
He grinned.
That afternoon, he wanted to build a blanket fort. We used two chairs and the couch cushions. He crawled inside and invited me to sit at the entrance because I was too big to fit.
“You're the guard,” he said.
“What am I guarding against?”
“Space pirates.”
“Serious responsibility.”
He handed me a wooden spoon.
We played until Rachel arrived. Tommy showed her the fort and explained that the guard was only allowed to enter if invited.
Rachel raised an eyebrow at me.
“Good rule,” she said.
I agreed.
That night, as I folded the blankets, I thought about the way Tommy had arranged his own small space. He could decide who came inside. He could tell us when the game ended.
That was the kind of control I wanted him to practice.
Not control over courts or adults' feelings.
Just control over his own voice, body, and ordinary choices.
Meanwhile, Lauren’s mother, Evelyn, called me.
She had never liked me much, though she loved Tommy and sent him books on his birthday.
“Andrew, this has gone too far,” she said.
“What has?”
“The courts. The people watching Lauren with her own child.”
At another orientation call, Denise reminded us that the center could not provide therapy during visits. If Tommy needed emotional support outside the session, Dr. Kim was the right professional. Denise and her team would focus on monitoring contact, following the court order, and recording what occurred.
I appreciated that each person knew the limits of their job. I had once wanted one person to settle everything. Now I could see why that expectation had been unfair.
When Tommy heard that the center had a puzzle table, he began planning which puzzle to choose. He wanted something with trains, but he said dinosaurs would also be acceptable.
“You have high standards,” Rachel told him.
“Very high.”
He examined his dinosaur's loose eye and asked for glue. We fixed it at the kitchen table and left it to dry overnight.
The next morning, he inspected the repair.
“Better,” he said.
It wasn't perfect. The eye still tilted a little. He decided he liked it that way.
That afternoon, we read a picture book about animals crossing a river. Tommy insisted the fox could have built a bridge instead of waiting for the bear. He drew a better bridge on a separate sheet.
When I asked what he'd call it, he said, “The No-Waiting Bridge.”
We taped it above his desk.
I thought about how often he had waited for adults to notice that something was wrong.
I did not say that aloud.
I admired the bridge, then asked him what color to make the river.
“Tommy was taken to the hospital in severe pain.”
Before turning out the lights, he placed the dinosaur on his pillow and practiced saying that he needed a break. He spoke quietly but clearly. I told him I could hear every word.
“I know he was hurt. I also know Lauren has been under enormous stress.”
I sat at the kitchen table, watching a strip of afternoon sunlight creep across the floor.
The next appointment went on the family calendar beside spelling tests and grocery day. Tommy asked which event was most important. I told him we would prepare for each one when the time came. He seemed satisfied with that answer and chose a green pen for the spelling test.
“Stress doesn’t explain away an injury.”
Evelyn fell silent.
Then she said, “Would you at least let me see him?”
“Talk to Priya about an appropriate arrangement. I’m not going to make promises without understanding the order.”
“You used to be kinder.”
“I’m trying to be careful.”
After the call, I wrote down what had been said.
I did not tell Tommy that his grandmother thought the case had gone too far.
He did not need another adult’s opinion to carry.
At school, a rumor had begun that Tommy had been in a car accident. Another child asked whether he had broken his spine.
He came home upset.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Can you tell everybody to stop?”
I emailed Mrs. Heller and Ms. Ortiz. They arranged a classroom reminder about privacy and kindness without naming Tommy. The next day, a classmate invited him to help design a paper rocket for the science fair.
That invitation helped more than any speech I could have given.
Rachel brought craft sticks and glue.
The kitchen table disappeared beneath paper, tape, and painted stars.
Tommy worked slowly, stopping when his back began to ache.
He did not apologize for resting.
That felt like progress.
On the evening before the next visit, he sat beside me on the couch.
“Mom said at the first visit that I was her whole world.”
“That’s a big thing to hear.”
“Is it mean if I don’t want to be somebody’s whole world?”
I thought for a moment.
“No. You’re allowed to be a kid. Adults need other grown-ups to help with their feelings.”
He pressed the dinosaur into the cushion.
“Good.”
I did not know whether the next session would be better.
I knew only that I would keep listening without asking him to take sides.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: An unexpected witness complicates the investigation without giving Andrew an easy answer
The emergency doctor asks Andrew a question that changes how everyone treats Tommy’s injury
Part 6 of 12
