Page 70 of Pucking the Single Dad
"And you're romantically involved with Mr. Wilder?"
My jaw clenched. Serena's chin lifted slightly—that tell I'd learned meant she was angry but controlling it.
"I am."
"So your testimony might be considered... biased?"
"My feelings for Brad don't change the facts. I'm a trained professional who's observed their household dynamics extensively. What I see is exceptional parenting under challenging circumstances."
The lawyer smirked. "And if this relationship ends? What happens to Finn's stability then?"
The question hung like a blade. Serena's pause stretched just long enough for my chest to tighten before she answered.
"Finn's stability isn't dependent on my presence. Brad Wilder has been both mother and father for three years. He's memorized every wheeze, every trigger, every medication interaction." She looked directly at Sarah's parents. "He doesn't need me to be an extraordinary father. He already is one. I'm just lucky enough to witness it."
The words should have reassured me. Instead, they highlighted what I'd been trying not to think about—that she could leave. That this could end.
Theo took the stand like he was entering a fight—shoulders squared, jaw set, his usual class-clown energy crystallized into something dangerous.
"Mr. Fitzgerald," Rebecca began.
"Theodore," he corrected, then caught the judge's eye. "Sorry. Theo's fine. Theodore makes me sound like a butler."
No one laughed. Theo's fingers drummed once against his thigh—his tell for nervous energy.
"Brad Wilder once turned down a sports drink commercial," he said abruptly. "Half a million dollars. Five hours of work. They wanted to film during Finn's medication adjustment period." He leaned forward. "You understand what I'm saying? Half a million dollars for five hours, and he said no because Finn might need him."
The shark tried to interrupt. Theo kept going.
"He knows every ER nurse at Wrightwood General. Not just knows—remembers their kids' names, their birthdays. Cheryl's daughter plays violin. Bob is getting married in June. That's not networking—that's a father who's spent so many nights in that hospital, he's become family."
"Mr. Fitzgerald—"
"One time, Finn's regular nebulizer medication got recalled. Closest replacement was in Sacramento. Brad drove six hours at 2 AM on a Tuesday. Six hours each way for medicine that might work ten percent better." Theo's voice cracked. "I offered to go for him. He said—" He stopped, swallowed. "He said 'It's my job. I'm his dad.'"
When Dr. Lisa took the stand, she transformed the courtroom into a medical lecture. "Mr. Wilder's understanding of pediatric asthma surpasses many residents I've trained. He maintains logs that could be published in medical journals. Three years, forty-seven appointments, zero missed. That's not luck—that's devotion that borders on obsession."
Mrs. Rachel's voice cracked twice during her testimony. "Brad installed a ten-thousand-dollar air purification system in our classroom. Didn't ask for recognition. Didn't tell other parents. The janitor mentioned it months later." Her voicesoftened. "Every morning, I get a text.'Finn's at 85% peak flow, slightly congested, used inhaler once at breakfast.'Every. Morning. So I know whether to keep him closer during recess, whether to watch for signs."
Then came the advocate's report.
The woman's voice stayed clinical, but the words burned. "When asked where he wanted to live, Finn was unequivocal. Quote:'With Dad. He knows the breathing stuff.'"
Standard. Expected.
"When asked about Ms. Voss, Finn said, quote:'She makes Dad laugh his real laugh, not his TV laugh. And she doesn't get scared when I can't breathe. She just fixes it.'"
My chest tightened.
"Then he asked, quote:'Can the judge make her my real mom? Not like my cloud mom—she's in heaven being beautiful—but my here mom? Dad smiles different when she's home. Like his face remembers how to be happy.'"
Sarah's mother made a sound like breaking glass. I couldn't look at her, couldn't handle her grief on top of my own terror.
The judge called recess. I fled to the bathroom and vomited, then stood at the sink watching my hands shake under cold water. The fluorescent lights made my reflection look like a corpse who didn't know he was dead yet.
I could lose him.
The thought kept cycling, a skipping record of panic. No more morning pancakes. No more action figure battles. No more feeling his chest rise and fall when he crawled into my bed after nightmares. Just empty rooms and scheduled visits and becoming a stranger in my son's life.
