387 days since my daughter was taken from me, I signed the custody agreement to get her back. It wasn’t easy. Countless visits with the mediator, yelling, threats of trial, and an unprecedented amount of nerves.

The settlement allowed for me to have 50% time with my daughter, and joint decision making with my husband. If we could not agree on a decision, we would enlist an expert to break the tie. We would split holidays, have equal residential custody and equal rights to my daughter. I was basically expected to co-parent with a liar, a thief, and a narcissist.

Nevertheless I was happy. My nightmare was more or less over. My daughter would come live with me for days at a time and I could travel with her and actively be a part of her life. I would deal with the challenges with my husband as they come. I was assured by my lawyer that I will always have him in my back pocket. I felt like I was reborn again. I was ready to begin my new life.

I reflected back on everything I had been through – the pain of losing my daughter, the stress of the court appearances, the agony of supervised visitation, and mustering up the will to keep going while I was in the depths of hell. I couldn’t believe I got through it.

As we stood in the back of the courtroom after getting the signed agreement on the record, my husband’s lawyer pulled my attorney aside and whispered to him just loudly enough to hear…

“She’s going to have to cough up her retirement accounts so I can get my legal fees paid.”

Not only did my husband want to steal my child, but also my money. This was the next battle. I wasn’t too bothered by this. I was happy to fight over finances instead of a human being. Even if I lost it all, I had my daughter back and that’s all that mattered.

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