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This was a man grieving the fact that doing the right thing might still hurt.
Two weeks later, we all sat in a small conference room with a family mediator.
Jackson on one side.
Rachel on the other.
Me near the wall, there only because both of them had agreed.
Emma was at preschool, blissfully unaware that adults were deciding how much love was safe to let into her life.
The mediator was a calm woman with silver hair and reading glasses on a chain.
She began by asking everyone to speak one at a time.
Rachel went first.
“I am not asking to erase what happened,” she said.
Her hands were folded so tightly her knuckles were white.
“I left because I was overwhelmed, immature, and afraid. That is not an excuse. Jackson stayed. He did the work. Emma is safe because of him. I know that.”
Jackson looked down.
Rachel continued.
“I don’t want to take Emma from him. I don’t want to confuse her. I want to build a relationship at the pace that is healthy for her.”
The mediator nodded.
Then she turned to Jackson.
He was silent for a long moment.
“I don’t trust her,” he said.
Rachel nodded.
“I know.”
“I don’t know if I ever will.”
“I understand.”
“I’m angry that you got help after leaving us, when we needed help while you were there.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
A tear slid down her cheek.
“You’re right.”
“I’m angry that everyone keeps telling me Emma deserves her mother, like I wasn’t both parents for two years.”
The room went very still.
Even the mediator stopped writing.