Just a Little Too Late

Ted's POV

I'd just finished signing the custody waiver the judge had drawn up when Vivian Simpson and our daughter arrived.

They probably assumed I was here to drag them through court for a ninth time, the way I had the last eight.

Vivian's voice dripped with mockery. "Ted, this makes nine lawsuits. It'll be the last one, too. Chloe just turned eight today, and legally, she's old enough to choose which of us she wants to live with."

My daughter Chloe's eyes went cold and distant. She didn't hesitate. "I want to live with Mom and Papa Andy."

I thought of the video my brother-in-law had sent me the night before—Vivian's family gathering early to set out a cake and light candles for our daughter's birthday. At the table, Chloe had suddenly frowned and complained, "It's all Dad's fault I always end up celebrating my birthday early."

I wanted to tell her that wasn't true. Every year, Vivian pushed our court dates back to our daughter's birthday, claiming she was too busy with work. I'd confronted her about it more than once, but she only looked at me, cold and unbothered.

"You like dragging this out, don't you? Fine, have it your way. Every time you drag us back to court, Chloe hates you a little more. I have all the time in the world to play this game with you, Ted."

I knew she was doing it on purpose—turning our daughter against me. But there was nothing I could do.

In the video, Chloe kept going. "I've made the same birthday wish for years now—that Mom wins in court. Why does Dad have to keep hounding us like some kind of lunatic? I hate a dad like that. Papa Andy is so much better."

Everyone at the table had laughed. I was the only one whose eyes burned watching it.

In that moment, any explanation felt pointless. This time, the one laughing at my expense wasn't a stranger—it was the daughter I'd fought eight years to keep.

So now, faced with Chloe's own choice spoken to my face, I only said, numb, "Fine. I don't want you either."

Chloe clearly didn't believe me. Her eyes flared with anger, her voice sharp. "If you didn't want me, why did you even bother suing?"

I didn't feel like explaining. I pointed to the custody waiver I'd just signed. "This has nothing to do with you this time. I'm here to divorce your mother."

Vivian's eyes landed on the document, and for a moment, she looked genuinely stunned. "You're sure? You'll give up Chloe just to divorce me?"

I nodded.

Ten years married to Vivian, and eight of them spent in courtrooms. Not a shred of dignity in any of it—just one hysterical accusation after another. Our daughter despised me now, and I was finally, truly tired.

So I pulled out the divorce agreement I'd rewritten more times than I could count and held it out to her.

"Just sign it. I'm not fighting for custody anymore."