William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
I thought of the small retirement account I had built over fifteen years of teaching intro to psychology at the community college.
It was my only separate asset, a quiet safety net I had never touched, built from every extra summer seminar I had taught.
“Will the eight thousand dollar retainer be enough to get Owen back before next weekend?” I asked, looking her in the eye.
“I can file the emergency motion tomorrow,” Karen said, her tone softening slightly. “But if your wife’s attorney fights it, we will be in court by next Thursday. There are no guarantees.”
“I have a personal five-three-b retirement fund,” I said. “It is separate from my wife’s accounts.”
“If you can get a cashier’s check by three-thirty today, I can have the paperwork ready to file by tomorrow morning,” she said.
She stood up, smoothing her navy blazer, and left a ten-dollar bill on the table for our black coffees.
“Do not wait, William,” she said, her silver pen disappearing into her purse. “The longer he stays at his grandmother’s house, the harder it is to argue it is an emergency.”
