Page 119 of The Silence Between

“You've got this,” Mari said from my other side, her hand briefly squeezing my arm. She was technically no longer part of the custody discussion, but she'd insisted on attending to support me.

Inside, the courtroom was less dramatic than television had led me to expect—no soaring ceilings or ornate woodwork, just a functional government space with uncomfortable benches and fluorescent lighting. Damien waited for us near the front, his professional demeanor reassuring as he reviewed last-minute details.

“Remember, just answer honestly and directly,” he advised. “We have all the documentation in order—financial stability, appropriate housing, educational arrangements for the children, your treatment compliance and progress. Focus on the facts and try not to get emotional, even if opposing counsel pushes those buttons.”

I nodded, scanning the room for any sign of Miguel or Townsend. “Has my father shown up?”

“Not yet. He may not come at all. His lawyer filed the necessary paperwork, but attendance isn't required at this stage.”

That was both a relief and strangely disappointing. Part of me had wanted to face him directly, to show him I'd survived the breaking point he and Townsend had deliberately engineered. Another part was grateful to be spared that particular strain.

The hearing itself was both more and less than I'd expected. More detailed, with questions about every aspect of our living situation, financial arrangements, educational plans, and my own health management. Less dramatic, with the focus on documentation and testimony rather than emotional appeals or accusations.

When the judge asked Diego and Sophie to speak privately in his chambers, my heart nearly stopped. But they returned looking calm, even slightly pleased with themselves, and the judge's expression had softened noticeably.

“Having reviewed all submitted documentation and heard testimony from all relevant parties,” the judge announced finally, “this court finds that the best interests of the minor children are served by maintaining the current guardianship arrangement with Leonel Reyes.”

Relief washed through me, so powerful I briefly felt lightheaded.

“Furthermore,” the judge continued, “given the history of this case and the previous attempts to disrupt this stable family unit, the court is issuing a formal order establishing permanent guardianship until each child reaches the age of majority, with visitation by biological parents to occur only under supervised conditions and contingent upon demonstrated sobriety for a period of no less than six months.”

Damien squeezed my shoulder, his usual professional reserve breaking into a genuine smile. “That's everything we asked for. Everything.”

As we left the courthouse, official documents in hand, I felt a weight lifting that I hadn't even realized I was still carrying. The threat that had hung over us for years had finally been neutralized.

“What did you say to the judge?” I asked Diego and Sophie as we walked toward the car.

Sophie grinned. “I told him you're the best big brother in the world, even when you're being annoying about homework and bedtimes.”

“And I told him I'd rather live under a bridge than with Dad,” Diego added, the blunt honesty making me wince even as I appreciated his sentiment.

“Well, thank you both,” I said, draping an arm around each of their shoulders. “Thanks to you, we're officially a family. Not that we weren't before, but now we have the papers to prove it.”

“Like we needed papers to tell us that,” Mari snorted, but her smile was as wide as mine.

* * *

The community collegeclassroom was nothing special—beige walls, institutional carpet, desks that had seen better decades. But as I sat there working through accounting principles and market analysis, I found myself wishing I was anywhere else.

“Now, let's look at the cash flow statement,” Professor Martinez was saying, clicking through his PowerPoint. “Remember, this shows the actual money moving in and out of a business, not just profits on paper.”

I dutifully copied the formulas, trying to focus on the practical applications. This was what I needed—solid business knowledge that would help me manage the bookstore better, maybe even run my own business someday. It was the smart choice, the responsible one.

But my mind kept drifting to the novel tucked in my backpack, the one I'd been sneaking chapters of between shifts. To the literature class I'd walked past earlier, where students were having an animated discussion about symbolism in contemporary fiction.

“Mr. Reyes?” Professor Martinez's voice cut through my daydreaming. “Can you tell us the difference between operational and investment cash flow?”

I scrambled to answer, pulling from the textbook reading I'd forced myself through last night. My response was technically correct but lacked any real engagement, and I could tell Martinez noticed.

After class, as I gathered my things, he approached my desk.

“You seem distracted lately,” he observed. “Is everything alright?”

“Just tired,” I said automatically. “Working a lot of hours.”

He nodded, but his expression remained thoughtful. “You know, I've been teaching for twenty years. I can tell when a student's struggling with the material versus when they're just not interested.”

I started to protest, but he held up a hand.

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