My phone vibrated in my palm, the screen displaying Owen’s name. I took a slow breath, trying to steady my posture before pressing the talk button.
“Cara,” Owen said when I answered. His cadence was sharp and clipped, the tone he used when he was treating our life like a deposition. “You are running behind schedule.”
“Good morning, Owen,” I said, keeping my voice quiet and measured. “We are actually right on time. We are leaving the driveway in fifteen minutes.”
“The court agreement states your travel window begins at noon,” Owen said. I could hear the rhythmic tap of his finger against his chin over the receiver. He always did that when he was trying to find a loophole. “I expect you to adhere to the exact times we agreed upon.”
“I have the schedule right here on my clipboard,” I said, looking down at the typed columns. “And I have the certified digital copy backed up in my email just in case there is any confusion. We are well within our window.”
“You don’t need to take her that far,” Owen said. His voice dropped to a flat, demanding register. “Miramar Beach is a four-hour drive. It is entirely unnecessary.”
“It is my parenting time, Owen. I am allowed to take our daughter to the ocean.”
“I am just saying, Cara, things have a way of changing when people get careless.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, my fingers tightening around the silver locket. “The court order was signed by the judge three months ago.”
“We will see about that,” he said.
“We went over these dates with the mediator for three hours,” I said. “You agreed to the four-week block.”
“I agreed to a reasonable schedule,” Owen said, his voice clipped and dry. “Not a child being dragged across the state because her mother wants to play house in a resort.”
