him in his best jeans and his winter shoes, which I’d scrubbed with an old toothbrush the night before until the white parts were white again. He was wearing a faded navy shirt with a tiny silver moon embroidered above the pocket.
EzoicThere were stains on the front. Dark, stubborn ones. I’d washed that shirt four times since Monday, once with dish soap, once with baking soda, and twice with a stain stick I borrowed from the bakery downstairs. The stains had faded a little. They hadn’t disappeared.
I’d thought
about making him wear something else. But it was his favorite shirt in the world, and when I held up the gray button-down from the church donation closet, his face fell so hard that I put it back.
“Please, Mom,” he’d said. “The moon one. It’s my lucky shirt.”
EzoicSo the moon one it was.
Across the aisle sat my ex-husband, Grant Bellamy.
He looked comfortable. He always looks comfortable. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him perfectly and shoes so polished they caught the ceiling lights. On his
left wrist was a heavy silver watch I’d never seen before. Later, I found out it cost more than ten thousand dollars.
This was the same man who had told the court, in writing, that he couldn’t afford more than two hundred dollars a month in child support.
Beside him sat his attorney, Preston Carroway.
Mr. Carroway was tall and silver-haired, with a voice like warm syrup. He had a leather briefcase, two junior associates, and a stack of binders with colored tabs. Grant had hired him from one of
