I Flew In to Surprise My Son for His Birthday—and Found Him Sleeping in an Airport Parking Lot with His Twin Boys. By the Time the Sun Set, the Story He’d Been Silenced Under Started Falling Apart.

Her name was Claire Donovan, and she didn’t waste time on reassurance. When she met us in her downtown office, she listened, took notes, and asked questions sharp enough to hurt.

“They overplayed their hand,” she said finally. “Claims of instability require consistency. If your son was competent enough to run a company and sign documents, they’ll need to explain why he suddenly wasn’t fit to live with his children.”

Andrew shifted uneasily. “They have therapists.”

“Do they,” Claire said coolly, “or do they have opinions dressed up as credentials?”

The days that followed blurred into a steady rhythm of paperwork, late-night conversations, and small moments of normalcy we guarded fiercely. I took the boys to a science museum. Andrew cooked dinner in the hotel kitchenette, rediscovering the comfort of routine. Claire’s team dug into records with relentless precision.

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