My Ex Told the Judge Our Son Wanted to Live With Him! Then My Son Pulled Out His Phone…
The judge’s brow lifted, but he nodded. “Go ahead, son.” My boy, barely ten, stepped forward, clutching a small recorder. The courtroom held its breath as he pressed play. A crackle, then my voice—soft, singing a lullaby from years ago, followed by his tiny giggle, preserved like a fossil. Then, his own voice, younger: “Mom, you’ll always be home, right?” My throat tightened. The recording shifted—Damien’s voice, sharp, arguing, doors slamming. The boy’s whisper followed: “I don’t feel safe.”
He stopped the tape. Silence swallowed the room. Damien’s face paled, his attorney’s pen frozen mid-scribble. The judge leaned forward, eyes locked on my son. “You recorded this?” he asked. The boy nodded. “For two years. To remember.”
I choked back a sob. Damien’s claim—he’d coached our son, twisted his words—crumbled. The judge’s gaze hardened on Damien. “This changes things.” My son turned to me, eyes steady, and whispered, “I want to stay with you, Mom.” The courtroom exhaled. The gavel fell, but the sound was drowned by my heart shouting: he’d chosen truth. He’d chosen me.
