William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
He looked at me for a quiet moment, his expression softening under the yellow corridor lights.
“For the boy?” he asked.
“For the lawyer,” I said. “Marsha is keeping him at her mother’s house. I have to prove it is unsafe.”
David nodded, his pencil starting to rotate again between his knuckles.
“I made a mistake during my own divorce twelve years ago,” he said, his voice dropping. “I let my daughter move to Oregon because I was too proud to spend the money on a real trial. I still regret that every single day.”
“I do not have a choice,” I said.
“If you need a character witness for the hearing, I will stand up for you,” he said. “The dean knows your work here. You are the most stable instructor we have.”
“They might bring up my childhood, David,” I said, adjusting my wire-rimmed glasses. “The foster homes. Marsha’s lawyer will use it.”
“Let them try,” David said softly. “A man who survived what you did to build a life is exactly the kind of father a judge should trust.”
