Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t speak.
“Jyll told me everything,” I said. “About your threats over custody. And everything else… Why do you think that I’ve kept my kids away from you as much as possible?”
“Jyll told me everything.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said with a dismissive wave. “I never —”
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“Don’t lie to me,” I snapped.
She stood when I did, trying to block me as I pushed past her and yanked the desk drawer open.
Inside was a set of manila files; the one on top made my insides turn cold. “Emergency Custody Protocol.”
I flipped it open, my heart thudding.
“Emergency Custody Protocol.”
There it was: My name, Jyll’s name on notarized pages. There was a signed contingency plan for guardianship “in the event of emotional instability.”
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“You forged my signature, Mom?”
She drew in a sharp breath.
“It was a precaution, Zach. Surely, you can understand that.”
“For what?! In case you finally pushed my wife too far?”
“You forged my signature, Mom?”
“She wasn’t fit, Zach. I did what I had to do.”
I didn’t answer. I grabbed the file, turned on my heel, and walked out.
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That night, I lay between my daughters, both curled into me like they could feel something final had happened. Emma clutched the photo that I’d thought Jyll had taken.
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