Six months after our divorce, my ex-husband showed up at my door with his fiancée and a wedding invitation in hand—but the second he saw the newborn in my arms, all the color drained from his face, and the perfect life he thought he’d built started falling apart right in front of me.

That afternoon she called Catherine Albright, a family attorney one of her café regulars had once sworn by during a brutal custody fight. Catherine did a video consult that evening from her office, hair pinned back, eyes sharp, voice calm in the way only truly competent women ever sound.

She asked for dates first.

The date of the divorce.

The estimated conception window.

The due date.

The date of birth.

The discharge status.

Leo’s gestational adjustment.

Then she asked what Ethan had actually said, word for word, as much as I could remember.

I told her everything.

When I finished, she folded her hands and said, “All right. First, don’t panic. This is manageable if you stay disciplined.”

“Manageable,” Maya repeated. “That’s your opening word?”

Catherine almost smiled. “It’s mine because chaos makes people sloppy, and sloppiness loses custody battles.”

My stomach tightened.

She noticed immediately. “I’m not saying you’re in danger of losing your child tomorrow. I’m saying this: from now on, every decision must be made as if a judge might one day read about it in a court file.”

That landed.

“Do I have to agree to the paternity test?” I asked.