Then I printed our messages.

I placed everything inside a folder.

And for the first time since Nicole screamed at me outside the school, I felt genuinely angry.

Not because she’d failed to appreciate me.

But because she’d used my kindness to support a false claim in court.

That evening, she sent me a message.

*“Sunday. Mom’s house. Dinner at five. We need to discuss the hearing. Bring your childcare binder.”*

I stared at the screen.

Then I replied:

“Okay.”

Mom’s house smelled of pot roast when I arrived Sunday afternoon.

It was the same brick home in Livonia where Nicole and I had grown up.

Normally, the familiar smell would have made me feel comfortable.

That evening, it only made me uneasy.

Nicole was already seated at the dining table.

The same manila folder she’d carried into the school office rested beside her plate.