Chapter 3: What a Mother Does
Naomi sat on the kitchen floor for a long time after the call ended.
Not crying.
Not moving.
Just sitting with her back against the cabinet and the phone face-down on the tile beside her.
Maisie called Vanessa Mum.
Her sister, Diane, called back twenty minutes later.
"Naomi.
Talk to me."
"I'm here."
"You need a solicitor.
Today.
Not next week."
"I've been doing everything right." Her voice came out flat.
"Every pickup.
Every school form.
Every doctor's appointment.
I have records, Diane.
I kept records of everything."
"Then use them.
Because Graham has a solicitor and Vanessa has a plan and you're sitting on your kitchen floor."
Naomi stood up.
She called a family law solicitor that afternoon — a woman named Patricia Holt whose name she found through a colleague at work.
Patricia's office was small and smelled of old paper, and she listened without interrupting while Naomi laid out four months of careful, documented history.
"You kept a log?" Patricia said, when Naomi slid the folder across the desk.
"Every pickup time.
Every handoff.
Text confirmations from Graham.
School attendance records.
Her pediatric appointments."
Patricia opened the folder.
Her expression didn't change, but she turned the pages slowly.
"And the custody arrangement currently in place?"
"Informal.
We never went to court after the separation.
Graham said he didn't want to make it adversarial."
Patricia looked up.
"He said that."
"Yes."
"And now he's filing for full custody."
"Yes."
Patricia set the folder down.
"Mrs.
Mercer—"
"I kept my married name for Maisie.
But please — just Naomi."
"Naomi." Patricia folded her hands.
"The log is good.
The records are good.
What I need to know now is whether there are any incidents — anything at all — that Graham or his wife could point to and say: this is why she is unfit."
Naomi thought of the ballroom.
The sl@p.
The way she had walked out carrying Maisie while two hundred people watched.
"There was one incident," she said.
"At Graham's wedding."
"Tell me."
She told her.
All of it.
The way Vanessa had kept Maisie in a back room like something to be hidden.
The way Maisie had cried at the door.
The way Naomi had walked through the reception and taken her daughter's hand and the sl@p that followed.
Patricia listened without expression.
"Were there witnesses?"
"Two hundred of them."
"And who struck first?"
"Vanessa sl@pped me."
"In front of witnesses."
"Yes."
Patricia made a note.
"That changes things somewhat." She looked up.
"I want you to understand what we're dealing with.
Your ex-husband's wife has been building a case against you for months.
The custody application is not impulsive.
This was planned."
Naomi's jaw tightened.
"I know."
"Which means we need to understand exactly what she has told Graham, what she has told Maisie, and whether any of it can be documented on her end." Patricia tapped her pen against the desk.
"Do you have anyone close to the household?
Anyone who sees Maisie regularly in that environment?"
Naomi thought for a moment.
"Graham's mother," she said slowly.
"Eleanor Mercer.
She never liked Vanessa.
She told me that herself, three weeks after the wedding."
Patricia's pen stopped moving.
"Is she still in contact with you?"
"She sends Maisie birthday cards.
She called me at Christmas."
"Then," Patricia said, "she may be the most important person in this case."
Naomi drove home in the dark.
She sat in the car outside her flat for a moment before going in.
Then she picked up her phone and found Eleanor Mercer's number.
It rang twice.
"Naomi." Eleanor's voice was careful.
Quiet.
Like she had been waiting for this call.
"I wondered when you'd ring."
"Eleanor," Naomi said.
"I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me."
A pause.
May you like
"I've been wanting to tell you something for two months," Eleanor said.
"I just didn't know how."
