That night, I called a lawyer. I laid out every detail: the custody agreement, the blocked messages, the missed calls, the threats.
“She said what?” the lawyer asked.
“Do you have proof?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
I had documented everything—texts, calls, recordings. I was ready.
Weeks later, we faced off in court. She sat confidently, certain of her win.
Her lawyer sneered, “He agreed to full custody.”
My attorney stood. “My client agreed only with open access. That promise was broken. We have proof.”
The recording played. Her words echoed through the courtroom: “You’ll never see her again.”
The judge leaned forward. Her lawyer tried to spin it as frustration. The judge raised a hand.
Her face went pale.
The ruling was swift: shared custody.
She tried to cling to control—passive-aggressive texts, complicated pickups—but the tide had turned. Her husband began to crack under pressure. Their marriage unraveled over money, over me, over everything. Eventually, he left.
She was alone. Her control was gone.
And my daughter? She started asking to stay longer, running into my arms at pickups. Visits stopped feeling like visits—they felt like home.
Finally, the moment I’d waited for arrived.
I stood at her door, my daughter’s hand in mine, her bag packed for our first official weekend together. My ex tried to mask it, but I saw the fatigue in her eyes.
