Chapter 18
When June turned eighteen months old, Eleanor Vance contacted me regarding Adam’s formal petition for supervised visitation.
He had completed his eighteen months of in-patient treatment. He had secured a steady, full-time job as a certified apprentice technician at an industrial boiler manufacturing plant in Springfield. He had submitted twenty-four consecutive clean drug, alcohol, and financial monitoring screenings to the Montgomery County Probation Department.
The hearing took place in a small, quiet administrative courtroom at the Franklin County Domestic Relations Court.
Adam sat at the defendant's table with a court-appointed legal aid attorney.
He was wearing an inexpensive navy suit that looked slightly too big for his broad shoulders. His beard was trimmed neatly, his hair cropped short, and his posture was entirely different from the manic, pacing boy who had cornered me in Holly’s living room. He sat with his hands folded flat on the table, eyes fixed forward, quiet and respectful.
When our eyes met across the aisle, he didn't smile, and he didn't offer a theatrical, begging wave. He simply offered a solemn, respectful nod.
The magistrate reviewed the thick binder of compliance reports.
"Mr. Miller," Magistrate Jenkins said, peering over her half-moon glasses. "Your records from the Hope Valley Residential Center are exemplary. Your probation officer notes that you have completed forty hours of family restitution counseling and are current on all court-ordered child support payments."
"Yes, Your Honor," Adam replied, his voice calm, clear, and steady.
"Mrs. Miller," the magistrate turned to me. "The court is inclined to approve the recommendation for Phase One supervised visitation: two hours every other Saturday at the Center for Family Safety in Columbus, monitored by a licensed social worker. Do you have any objections?"
I stood up, smoothing down the front of my cream blazer.
"No, Your Honor," I said. "As long as the sessions remain strictly at the supervised center, with mandatory financial and sobriety compliance continuing as a prerequisite, I believe June deserves the opportunity to know her father."
Adam’s head bowed slightly. I saw his shoulders tremble once, but he kept his composure.
Two weeks later, on a bright Saturday morning in May, I walked June through the double security doors of the Center for Family Safety on Front Street.
The playroom was bright, filled with colorful rugs, plastic play kitchens, and soft beanbag chairs.
Adam was already waiting, sitting on a low wooden chair near a train set. When the door opened and June waddled in, clutching her favorite plush duck, he slowly slid down onto his knees on the rug, keeping a respectful distance of ten feet so he wouldn't startle her.
"Hi, June," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
June stopped. She looked at him with her large, curious blue eyes, then looked back at me.
"Go ahead, sweetie," I smiled gently, giving her a little encouraging nudge. "Look at the trains."
June took three wobbly steps forward, picked up a red wooden locomotive from the track, and held it out toward him with a questioning coo.
Adam held out his open palm, letting her place the toy into his hand.
A single tear slipped down his cheek, but he smiled, clicking the wooden wheels against the track.
"Choo-choo," he whispered softly. "Thank you, June."
I stepped back into the observation hallway, watching through the one-way glass as the social worker sat quietly in the corner taking notes.
Diane stood beside me in the hallway, her arm linked through mine.
"You're a remarkable woman, Natalie," Diane said softly.
May you like
"She deserves a whole world, Diane," I replied, watching my daughter laugh as the wooden train rolled across the carpet. "Not half of one built on fear."
***
