I unzipped the folder and slid the paper copy of our custody agreement out. The first page was wrinkled at the edges, a crease running straight through the official state header.
The gold embossed custody seal in the lower corner was still bright, its edges crisp against the damaged paper. I stared at the unique serial number printed just below the seal, standard court registry number five-two-nine-eight-four-A.
I had looked at that number so many times during the divorce that it felt like an old phone number. It was the only proof I had that a judge had signed my summer vacation weeks into law.
“Can we go to the water now?” Emma asked, holding up an orange plastic starfish.
“In just five minutes,” I said. “Let me grab some towels from the hall.”
I kept the black folder in my hand as I stepped out into the carpeted corridor. A tall housekeeper in a gray uniform was stacking pillowcases on a linen cart near the ice machine.
