Chương 11
“You don’t believe him.”
“I think schedules should be based on what people can actually do, not what they hope they can do.”
Leo pushed the markers away.
“So you’re making him not see me.”
“No.”
“It looks like that.”
Sarah felt herself becoming defensive.
“This is not something you understand all the details of.”
Leo stood.
She closed her eyes.
Wrong.
Again.
He said, “Because I’m eight.”
“Leo.”
He walked upstairs.
Sarah sat at the table staring at the calendar.
Green had been a bad choice.
The page looked like a map of territory she had claimed.
Daniel called that evening.
“You showed him the schedule?”
“We made a calendar.”
“You showed him your proposed schedule?”
“It’s the current schedule.”
“It’s temporary.”
“I told him that.”
“He just called me and asked why you don’t want him at my place.”
Sarah stood.
“I did not say that.”
“He’s eight, Sarah.”
“Do not use his age against me when you were the one telling him about Elise in your bathroom.”
“I answered a question about my behavior. You handed him a custody proposal.”
“I did not hand him anything.”
“You colored it green.”
Sarah stared at the refrigerator.
“That sounds insane.”
“I know.”
There was a pause.
Then Daniel laughed.
A short, helpless sound.
Sarah hated herself for laughing too.
It broke something open.
Not repaired.
Just opened.
She sat.
Daniel said, “I can do more nights.”
“Your February travel schedule says otherwise.”
“I changed it.”
“What?”
“I talked to Greg. I’m not covering the western region anymore.”
Sarah straightened.
“You gave that up?”
“Yes.”
“That’s twenty percent of your bonus.”
“I know.”
“You complained about money for six months.”
“I know.”
“And you did this without telling me.”
“I don’t have to clear work decisions with you anymore.”
The sentence stung.
Daniel heard it.
“I didn’t mean—”
“No. You’re right.”
He exhaled.
“I’m trying to be available for Leo.”
“I understand.”
“I can do every other week Wednesday through Saturday. And Monday dinners.”
“That’s not equal.”
“I’m not asking for exactly equal right now.”
Sarah picked at the edge of a paper napkin.
“What are you asking for?”
“Enough time that my apartment becomes his home too.”
She closed her eyes.
The phrase was painful because it was reasonable.
“I’m scared,” she said.
Daniel went quiet.
It had been a long time since she used that word with him without weaponizing herself before he could.
“Of what?”
“That I’ll say yes because I feel guilty. Or say no because I’m angry.”
He did not rush to reassure her.
“Okay.”
“I don’t trust myself to know which one.”
“Then we use the mediator.”
Sarah nodded even though he could not see her.
“Okay.”
Their mediation session was scheduled for the following Thursday.
The mediator, a woman named Helen Brooks, had gray hair, a blue legal pad, and no apparent interest in which spouse could tell the more persuasive story.
Sarah liked and resented her almost immediately.
Daniel wanted more overnights.
Sarah wanted consistency.
Daniel argued his changed work schedule made more parenting time realistic.
Sarah said changes made under the emotional pressure of separation might not last.
Daniel said she had spent years criticizing him for working too much and was now using his work as proof he could not parent.
Sarah said that was not the same thing.
Helen asked them both to stop.
They did.
Barely.
For two hours they discussed pickup times, school mornings, holidays, summer weeks, medical decisions, travel notices, childcare, and whether Cooper could occasionally stay at Daniel’s apartment if the landlord approved the dog.
The astonishing thing was how quickly love became logistics when placed on a legal pad.
Who kept the passport.
Who paid soccer registration.
How much notice for out-of-state travel.
Whether FaceTime happened at a set time or only when Leo wanted.
At eleven seventeen Helen asked about Christmas.
Sarah’s stomach turned.
Daniel looked at the table.
Helen said, “You can alternate Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, split the day, or create another arrangement. I don’t recommend forcing a shared holiday if being together creates tension.”
Sarah stared at the word Christmas on Helen’s pad.
The large silver box remained unopened under the tree at home.
“We can decide later,” she said.
Daniel nodded.
Helen looked at both of them.
“You can. But your son’s first question after discovering the divorce was where he would take his gifts next Christmas.”
Sarah’s head lifted.
“How do you know that?”
Daniel looked uncomfortable.
“I told my attorney. It was in the intake notes.”
Sarah’s first reaction was anger.
Something private had become a sentence in a professional file.
Then she saw Daniel’s face.
He looked ashamed too.
Helen said, “I’m not raising it for sentiment. I’m raising it because holidays represent the uncertainty he is trying to understand. You need an answer before next December.”
“We have eleven months,” Sarah said.
Helen gave her a patient look.
“You had time before this Christmas too.”
Sarah leaned back.
She deserved that.
Daniel rubbed his jaw.
“What if we split Christmas Day?”
Sarah looked at him.
“How?”
“Morning at one house. Afternoon at the other.”
“He’ll spend Christmas watching the clock.”
“Then alternate years.”
“So one of us doesn’t see him Christmas morning?”
“That’s what alternating means.”
“I know what it means.”
Helen raised her pen.
Both stopped.
Daniel exhaled.
“Can I say something without you hearing it as a proposal?”
Sarah almost snapped back.
Instead she nodded.
He said, “I don’t think the answer has to be what hurts us least.”
She stared at him.
He looked down at his hands.
“I think we’ve done enough of that.”
Helen said nothing.
Sarah asked, “What do you think the answer should be?”
“I don’t know yet.”
For once, uncertainty did not sound like avoidance.
It sounded like work still required.
May you like
They left mediation with a temporary parenting schedule that gave Daniel more overnights and Sarah fewer than she wanted.
In the parking lot, she sat in her car and cried.
