Inside were documents—financial papers, property records… and a folder labeled with my children’s names.
Ava. Mason.
I opened it.
The first page was from a child psychologist, full of clinical language about instability and concerns about my ability to manage.
Then I remembered my daughter’s words about the “nice lady” asking questions.
The next document confirmed enrollment at a private school.
In Europe.
Boarding school.
They were supposed to start within a week—while I was on my honeymoon.
But the worst part came last.
A legal document granting Richard authority over decisions about my children.
Signed by their father.
The man who had abandoned us years ago.
Somehow, Richard had found him—and convinced him to sign.
The next morning, I walked into brunch with the file in hand.
I placed it in front of Richard.
“You think this gives you the right to send my kids away without telling me?” I demanded.
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