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always, was dressed in black, replete with a baseball cap, his usual look. There was nothing about the way the family dressed that evening that would have given me any hint that this trip was anything other than a normal family vacation.
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    BY THE TIME I loaded Bruna’s four suitcases into the Jeep, along with her mom’s and dad’s bags, there was barely any room in the vehicle to sit, much less to get everyone safely secured with a seat belt. I’ve always been a seat belt advocate, so it was only natural for me to encourage the others. “Buckle up, everybody.”
    Bruna’s mom squeezed into the backseat and pulled four-year-old Sean onto her lap. She stretched the seat belt out as far as it would go and then wrapped the belt around both herself and Sean—not exactly a safe way of traveling. I started to protest and then decided simply to hold my tongue. We’d safely made the forty-five-minute drive to Liberty International many times before; we could probably do it one more time. This would be the last time we’d ever make the drive as a family.

5
    My New Reality
    M OM’S NATURAL, WELL-INTENTIONED FATHER’S DAY GREETING ripped my heart wide open. I hadn’t even realized that it was Father’s Day. On past Father’s Days, I always got a card from Bruna as well as one from Sean. On our first Father’s Day after Sean’s birth, Bruna gave me a framed collage that included Sean’s first lock of hair and his footprint taken in the hospital the day he was born, along with the inscription “Sean’s First Important Things for Daddy on His First Daddy’s Day, June 18, 2000.” Bruna also included Sean’s blue hospital bonnet, worn in those first hours after his birth, and even a sealed snippet of the umbilical cord. In the top left corner of the collage was the hospital record of Sean’s birth: “Baby Goldman, May 25, 2000. Born at 3:26 P.M.; weight: 8 pounds, 8 ounces; length: 21 inches. Mother: Bruna; Delivery doctor: Dr. Karoly; baby doctor: Dr. Appulingan.” That first Father’s Day gift from Bruna instantly became one of my most cherished possessions.
    For Father’s Day 2004, however, Bruna had left no cards for me to find, no special pictures of Sean—only the ragged knife edge of her words saying that she was not coming home. Still trying to process the basic information—that my wife was walking out on me for no apparent reason, and that she planned to separate me from my son, whom I loved—I stumbled around our home, the tears blurring my vision. I could barely carry on a conversation with Mom right now.
    â€œBreathe, David, breathe,” I said aloud to myself and the empty house. The sound of Bruna’s voice on the phone nagged at me. I had never heard her so cold. And where did she get all that information about what I shouldn’t do? Bruna was a bright woman, but she was not a legal expert. And what about Sean? Did he know what his mother was doing? How was she explaining this to him? Surely he couldn’t possibly think that I didn’t want him to come home. I could still see his bright eyes and his incredible smile as we put the swing set together just a few days earlier. Surely he knew I loved him and that nothing had changed about my love. He knew that, didn’t he? A thousand worrisome thoughts and bleak scenarios flashed through my mind.
    I shook my head and tried to pull myself together. I had to stop dwelling on such dark, depressing images. But how? How could I possibly think of anything else? When I finally composed myself enough to function, I attempted to talk to my mom on the phone. “I’m coming over,” I said. “Bruna is not coming back, and she’s keeping Sean.”
    â€œWhat? Not coming back? Keeping Sean?” Mom’s voice on the phone sounded frantic. “David, what are you talking about?”
    â€œYes, Mom. I just got a call