May you rise in my grace

The two men in front of me exude a tender mixture of sincerity and panic.

Their appearance testifies to their relationship:  both tall and slender, with neatly cut straight brown hair.  On the right, the son’s face shows worry in lines that interrupt the smooth contours of youth.  Those lines echo in the face of the father —  but deeper,  angular, and permanent,. They mirror each other in hand gestures and the set of their shoulders.  Father and son; Grandfather and father.  Sitting before me talking about the fate of the third generation.

The son’s voice drops as he describes how his eighteen-month-old son’s mother has begun to put the brakes on time spent with papa.  It was okay for a while but now she makes excuses.  I put the inevitable question:  When did your romantic relationship end?  He looks at his father before replying, December.  I also turn to his father, who shakes his head and adds, They were off and on.  She lets him see the boy when they are “on”.  I sigh.  So many have told this story, sitting in these same chairs, wearing these same earnest expressions.

The older man asks, Why do women do that, and I tell him, Control.  They feel pain, they get back  by inflicting pain.  Then I turn  to the younger man and we talk about what he wants.  I explain what “joint legal custody” means; I describe a parenting plan’s components; I talk about “parenting time”.  He adamantly insists that he wants to spend as much time with his son as the mother does.  He doesn’t care about “principal residential”. He already pays child support, and a fair amount.  He has moved back with his mother to save money.  The man on the left winces when his ex-wife’s name comes into the conversation but I don’t let the story get derailed.

At the end of the meeting, they shake my hand and thank me for staying late.  They have a lot to discuss.  I watch them leave and then I start gathering my things for my own departure.  My heart feels the lingering heaviness.  May you rise in my grace, I whisper into the stillness of my office.

This morning  I feel the salt in my joints from last night’s carry-out dinner.  The six o’clock appointment capped a ten-hour work day.  I had no energy for cooking.  But I’m not complaining.  I am grateful, today, for that prospective client who sat in my office pleading his case  to be a full-time father.  What a fine son you’ve raised, I said, as the two departed.

And what an honor that they came to me for help.

.It’s the twelfth day of the twenty-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.

 

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