My son sobbed the entire drive to his grandmother’s house. “Daddy, please don’t leave me here.” My wife snapped, “You’re babying him.” I left him anyway. Three hours later, a neighbor called. “Your little boy ran to my house shaking. He’s hiding under my bed and won’t stop crying.”

When the hearing ended, William didn’t feel victorious. He felt like a man who had barely managed to drag someone he loved out of a burning house and had just been told the fire was real after all.

Owen was released two days later into William’s care under strict follow-up instructions. The drive home was silent except for the hum of the road and the occasional rustle of the blanket Owen insisted on keeping over his lap even though the day was warm. He refused to sit in the back seat, so William moved the booster to the front passenger side despite knowing it wasn’t ideal. He could not bear the thought of Owen sitting behind him again, out of reach.

Home looked different to both of them.

Owen stood in the foyer without taking off his shoes, staring at the stairs as if unsure the house still belonged to him. William knelt beside him. “This is your home,” he said gently. “Nobody can send you away from here. Not ever.”

Owen searched his face, measuring. “Mommy too?”