We didn’t take lavish vacations.
But our home ran on small routines that made him feel safe.
Pancakes on Saturday.
Library on Wednesday.
The same four songs on the drive to school, in the same order, because he said it made the day go right.
Then, in September, Spencer filed to change custody.
He argued that Eli would have better opportunities with him: private school, international travel, access to powerful mentors.
His attorneys showed photographs of his estate and a polished plan for Eli’s future with a logo on the cover.
I brought school records, pediatrician visits, and the proof of the life we had built together.
But Spencer had something I couldn’t compete with.
Eli’s apparent consent.
In the judge’s chambers, my son sat beside his father in a navy blazer I had never seen before, with a crest on the pocket from a tailor in London, and he did not look like my son.
