My six-year-old nephew dragged his broken leg across seven blocks of pavement to reach my porch, with his starving three-year-old sister clinging to his shirt.

Filing for temporary legal custody felt less like a decision than stepping off a ledge and trusting there would be ground. Peter knew what it would cost: work contracts lost, family anger sharpened, every old wound dragged into a courtroom record.

He filed anyway.

Reena was served outside a pharmacy on a Friday morning. By Friday afternoon she was at Aaron’s old house trying to get in past the police seal, shouting that she needed “personal files.” When Hanley called Peter about it, Peter drove over and watched from across the street as Reena argued with the officer guarding the door.

“What files?” Peter asked when Hanley let him approach.

Reena’s eyes flashed. “None of your business.”

“Funny,” Peter said. “You’re real interested in paperwork for somebody who says everything was normal.”

She pivoted too fast. “You think Aaron wanted those kids with you? He knew exactly what kind of brother you are.”

But the insult landed wrong now. Not confident. Desperate.

Hanley stepped in and reminded her that the no-contact order now covered the children and Peter’s residence. Reena’s hands curled around her purse strap so hard the leather creaked. She wasn’t afraid of losing Peter. She was afraid of losing whatever Aaron had left behind.

That night Peter installed a simple night-light outside the kids’ room because Drew could not sleep in total darkness. When he finished, he found the boy awake, staring at the door.

“Are we in trouble because of me?” Drew asked.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed. “No. We’re doing this because of you.”