Chapter 7: The Doctor Who Didn't Know Sophie
His name was Dr.
Gerald Foss, and he had a private practice in Plano.
Carol's paralegal found him in forty minutes using the declaration Evelyn's attorney had submitted.
He was not affiliated with any hospital Sophie had ever been treated at.
He was not a pediatric allergist.
He was a general practitioner who had been in practice for thirty-one years and whose license had a single notation from 2019 — a complaint regarding a written statement provided in a legal proceeding that was later found to contain inaccurate information.
He had done this before.
Carol put that in front of the judge at the hearing to challenge the protective order.
Evelyn's attorney — a man named Garrett who wore a very good suit and spoke with the practiced calm of someone used to winning — stood up and said the notation was unrelated to the current matter and that Dr.
Foss was simply offering a professional opinion on the general science of peanut allergies.
The judge, a woman in her sixties with reading glasses on a beaded chain, looked at the declaration and then at Carol.
"Counsel, does the child have a documented diagnosis?"
"Yes, Your Honor.
Severe peanut allergy, diagnosed at age three, confirmed by a board-certified pediatric allergist, with two prior anaphylactic episodes on record.
The most recent episode occurred six days ago and required emergency epinephrine administration and hospital admission."
"And the physician who submitted this declaration — has he ever examined the child?"
"He has not, Your Honor."
The judge looked at Garrett.
Garrett said, "The declaration speaks to general medical literature, not to a specific examination —"
"I can read," the judge said.
She kept the protective order in place.
Garrett gathered his papers without expression.
Evelyn was seated in the gallery behind him.
I did not look at her directly, but I saw her in my peripheral vision — very still, very upright, her hands folded in her lap.
In the hallway afterward, Carol touched my arm briefly.
"That's round one," she said.
"She'll come back harder."
She was right.
Three days later, Evelyn's attorney filed a motion to depose me.
Standard in a custody dispute, Carol said, but the questions they submitted in advance made the strategy clear.
They wanted to ask about my employment history, my mental health treatment — I had seen a therapist for eight months after a miscarriage four years ago — my relationship with my own parents, and whether I had ever, in Daniel's presence, behaved in a way that could be characterized as emotionally volatile.
"They're going to use the therapy," I said.
"They're going to try," Carol said.
"Seeking mental health support is not evidence of instability.
We'll be ready for it."
"What about Daniel?
Will he say something about the therapist?"
Carol was quiet for a moment.
"I think Daniel is in a difficult position," she said carefully.
"I don't think he is entirely comfortable with what his mother is doing.
But I also don't think he is willing to stand against her.
Not yet."
"Not yet," I repeated.
"People in these situations sometimes reach a point where they have to choose.
We may not be there yet.
But we may get there."
I thought about Daniel's face when he had stood in my doorway.
The way he had said this is going to make everything worse, like the problem was the protective order and not the reason for it.
I thought about the video.
Him reaching up.
Tilting the camera.
Saying nothing.
"He knew," I said.
"He didn't put the peanut butter in the frosting.
But he knew it was there and he didn't stop it and he didn't tell me."
"Yes," Carol said.
"That makes him responsible."
"In a moral sense, yes.
In a legal sense, we're still building that picture." She paused.
"But the camera footage already shows us what we need to show a judge.
He knew the camera was there.
He moved it deliberately.
That is not the behavior of an innocent bystander."
I nodded.
"Depose me," I said.
"I'm ready."
The deposition was scheduled for the following Thursday.
On Wednesday night, Renee called.
"Daniel came to Mom's house today," she said.
"I wasn't supposed to be there, but I was picking up some things I'd left.
I heard them in the kitchen."
"What did they say?"
"Mom told him the deposition was going to go badly for you.
She said her attorney had found something." Renee's voice was careful.
"She said there was a record from your therapist that could be used."
"Therapists don't release records without a subpoena."
"I know.
But Sarah — she said it like she already had it."
The line was quiet.
"How would she have a therapist's record?" I asked.
Renee didn't answer right away.
"Daniel," I said.
May you like
"I don't know for certain."
But we both knew.
