Chapter 13: The Filing At The County Courthouse
That morning I left the house before the sun was fully up. My sister had finally answered the night before, after three days of calls that went to voicemail. She didn't ask why I was asking. She just said bring them.
I packed Sophia's doll in her little backpack herself. She held it against her chest the whole ride. My son sat in his car seat kicking his feet against the back of my seat, quiet. My sister's apartment was on the second floor above the laundromat on Maple. The hallway smelled like dryer sheets and coffee.
She opened the door in sweatpants, her hair pulled back. She knelt right down to their level.
"Hey, monsters," she said.
Sophia didn't answer. She buried her face in my leg. My sister looked up at me.
"You got everything?" she asked.
I nodded. I had packed their overnight bag, their toothbrushes, the folder with the photos I hadn't wanted to show anyone. She took my hand for a second and squeezed it.
"I'll keep my phone on," she said. "You call when you're done. Don't rush."
I kissed the tops of their heads. Sophia's hair was still damp from where I'd brushed it. My son clung to my jeans until I crouched and hugged him.
"I'll be back before lunch," I told them. "I promise."
My sister closed the door behind them and I stood in that hallway a second longer, listening to their feet inside, before I went back down to the car.
The county courthouse didn't open until eight thirty. I was there at eight fifteen. The parking lot was half empty and the air was still cold enough that I could see my breath. I sat in the car with the manila envelope on my passenger seat and went through the pages one more time. The photos the counselor had helped me print. Her note on school letterhead. The bank packet with the highlighted transfers, the account numbers, Teresa's signature on the withdrawal slip that didn't match mine. The legal aid attorney had paper-clipped each section and written a sticky note on top: File together. Ask for temporary hearing date.
Inside, the security line moved slow. I took off my shoes, put my bag through the scanner, walked through. The marble floors echoed. A clerk called numbers from behind a high counter.
When they called B-47 I stepped up. The clerk was a woman in her fifties with glasses on a chain and a cardigan despite the heat inside. She didn't look up right away.
"How can I help you?" she said.
I slid the first petition forward. My hands weren't shaking as much as I thought they would.
"I need to file for a temporary custody arrangement and protective conditions," I said. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to. "It's for my two kids."
She pulled the papers toward her and flipped through them. Her eyes stopped on the photos. Sophia's arm, the red mark from the belt. The counselor's note describing what Sophia had said about her grandmother, dated and signed.
"This is in support of restricted contact regarding discipline?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "Their grandmother raised a belt to my daughter on her birthday. I have photos. And a note from her school counselor."
The clerk nodded once, not with surprise, just acknowledgment. She stamped the first page, loud in the quiet room.
"And you want the condition that she not discipline the children and that the belt be removed from the home?" she read from the form.
"Yes," I said.
She typed something into her computer and kept reading. She asked me to verify my address, Diego's address, Teresa's address. I spelled each one out. She printed a receipt and a case number and slid it back to me with a court date card.
"Temporary hearing is set for next Tuesday at nine a.m., Courtroom Three, Judge Simmons," she said. "Until then the temporary conditions are in effect once served. The other party must not use corporal discipline on the children. And the object described must be removed from the residence."
My throat tightened. I nodded.
Then I pushed the second packet forward.
"And this one," I said. "Joint petition with the bank. For division and return of our Memo Savings funds. The transfers were made without my authorization."
She took that packet too. It was thicker. The bank's dispute letter, the transaction history showing the pattern of transfers from our joint Memo Savings to a private account, the evidence Teresa had spent the money and Diego had covered it.
She reviewed it page by page. She didn't comment on the amounts.
"You've included the bank's hold documentation?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "They extended the hold after I filed the initial dispute. This is the formal request for division and return."
She stamped that one too, added it to the file, linked the case numbers with a clip.
"Both filings are active as of now," she said. She lowered her voice a little. "Service is pending. The sheriff's office will serve the respondents. That hasn't happened yet. You don't need to be there for that. Just make sure you're available for your hearing. Keep copies of everything on you."
She handed me my copies, each page now stamped FILED in red. The hearing date circled in blue ink.
I folded the copies carefully and put them in my envelope. My hands were steady now.
Outside, I called my sister from the courthouse steps. The sun was higher. Traffic moved on Main Street.
"How'd it go?" she answered on the first ring. I could hear the kids in the background, cartoons on.
"It's filed," I said. "Both of them. I have a court date next Tuesday. They said the bank hold is extended until the hearing. And Teresa can't be around them with the belt. It's in writing."
"Are you okay?" she asked.
I stood there with the envelope against my chest. The air felt sharp and clean.
May you like
"I am," I said. "I'll come get them in an hour. I just need to sit for a minute."
I didn't go home right away. I sat on the bench outside the courthouse and watched people go in and out with their papers, their lawyers, their kids. I held the stamped copies on my lap and waited until my breathing slowed down.
