I woke up early this morning, long before anyone else in the house was moving. I think it’s the effect of sleeping on terra firma that has my equilibrium off kilter. I got used to the rocking and rolling of the cruise ship under my feet.

In truth, I’m glad to be home. I’ve eaten too much and drunk too much alcohol. I’ve gotten no exercise at all, and my head is a muddle. The sure-fire cure is an easy run to get my blood pumping again, wake me up to the welcome solitude of sleepy little Abingdon. Bright lights and video game screens are a fine diversion for a few days, but I can’t imagine living and working on that ship. It would make me crazy.

After my run I indulge in some easy yoga stretches to work out tight muscles and calm my brain. The house is still quiet when I return. Everyone’s spent, exhausted from our vacation.

The next time we take a trip, I’m voting for camping along the Appalachian Trail. The kids loved Disney, but they might love an authentic old growth forest and a few towering waterfalls just as much. Campfires are even more mesmerizing than wide screens, and the trails aren’t nearly as crowded as the buffet lines on board a fully booked Disney cruise.

I start coffee, pondering whether to make waffles or pancakes for breakfast. Jordan loves pancakes. Chrissy prefers waffles. Joey’s in for whatever is put in front of him as long as there’s plenty of syrup and butter. I think I’ll make both.

“Good morning handsome,” Dillon yawns, padding into the kitchen. He’s a vision with his hair sleep tousled and eyes tired. “What’s got you up so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep anymore,” I reply, kissing his cheek. He looks like he needs caffeine; I pour him a cup of coffee with cream and honey. “It’s so quiet here. I got used to the noise on the boat.”

He nods. “I slept like a baby. It’s good to be home.”

“That it is,” I agree.

Tomorrow it’s back to work. I’m not looking forward to that. Christmas is just two and half weeks away and we haven’t decorated or gotten a tree yet. Our next day off together is ten days away. It’s now or never.

“I was thinking we should go this afternoon and get a Christmas tree,” I suggest. “We won’t have another chance ‘til late next week, and that’s not long enough for the kids to really get into it before Christmas has come and gone.”

Dillon nods, sipping his coffee. “Okay,” he says. “I was thinking the same thing, but we don’t have any ornaments. We’ll need to figure that out before we get the tree.”

I settle across the table from him. “I already thought of that,” I say. “Kathi and Griff have plenty to spare. They combined houses when they got together and neither of them can ever throw anything out. I think they’ll hook us up if we invite them over to help the kids decorate. Kathi already volunteered at Thanksgiving.”

“Perfect,” Dillon says. “Family to the rescue again. I don’t know how anyone does this on their own. I have so much respect for all the single mothers and fathers out there. Kids are hard work.”

“Doing it right is hard work,” I say. “I hope we do it right for them. I’m hoping to find a gymnastics class for Joey to join and see if there’s a climbing club for Jordan. Those would be great Christmas presents.”

Dillon smiles at me, giving me his sweet look that reminds me we’re on the same page. “I was thinking about ballet lessons for Chrissy. She rocked that whole princess vibe. I bet she’d love learning to do the whole pointy-toe thing.”

“What’s the pointy-toe thing?”

We turn. Chrissy stands in the kitchen doorway wearing her new Beauty and the Beast pajamas, her hair a witch’s nest of tangles.

“Ballet lessons,” Dillon repeats. “You know… ballet.”

She shakes her head, her brow furrowed with question. “What’s ballet?”

I hold out my hand, drawing her next to me. “It’s a very athletic, but elegant form of dance. Only the strongest and most confident of people can ever master it. We think you’ve got what it takes.”

“You do?” she asks, standing up straight, squaring her shoulders.

“We do,” Dillon replies. “But it’s hard work, and you’ll have to apply yourself.”

“I can do that,” Chrissy says, threatening a smile. “I’m already doing algebra with Jordan’s help. I’m almost doing sixth grade math and I’m only in fourth grade.”

“You’ll be the most graceful math nerd in ballet class,” I say, hugging her. “Kicking ass and taking names.”

Our plans for Chrissy’s bright future are interrupted by the doorbell. Dillon and I look at each other, then at the clock on the wall.

“Little early for guests, isn’t it?” he asks.

Yeah it is, and we’re not expecting any.

“I’ll get it,” I offer, taking a sip of coffee as I head to the front door.

Before I get there, I see a familiar brown and tan SUV through the window, parked in the drive behind Dillon’s car. It’s a sheriff’s department’s vehicle. I can’t imagine what they’re doing here.

“Can I help you?” I ask the young deputy who I greet at the front door.

“Are you Dillon Manning?” he replies, glancing past me into the house with a nervous twitch. He’s got a fist full of papers in his left hand, his right resting on the grip of his gun.

He’s a young kid and a little skittish. I realize I cut a threatening figure, dressed in my running pants and t-shirt, barefooted, and holding a cup of coffee. But seriously, it’s not quite eight in the morning. Does he really think someone is going to dash out from behind the door and tackle him?

“I’m not,” I say. “Come on in. Let me get him.”

“I’ll stay here,” he says, despite the fact that the house is warm, it’s cold outside, and he’s in shirtsleeves.

“Suit yourself,” I reply. I close the door and go to fetch Dillon.

“It’s for you,” I say. “Deputy Sheriff. I think you’re getting served.”

Dillon’s eyes grow wide. “What?!” he exclaims. “Are you kidding?”

“I don’t joke about cops or their paperwork. Deputy Fife looks serious as a heart attack.”

There’s no telling what this is about, but odds are, if it comes with officially served papers, it isn’t good.

Dillon meets the deputy at the door, takes the papers and signs the service record. The deputy leaves without a word as soon as he’s handed the documents over. Dillon stands in the doorway, the door wide open, letting chill December air flood the house while he reads the cover page.

“This is fucked up,” he mutters as I pass him to close the front door.

His face his screws up with anger and confusion. He flips through a few pages and as he reads, his anger rises.

“That son of a bitch,” he snarls, his hands starting to shake. “What a deplorable hypocrite.”

“What?” I ask, drawing close, peering over Dillon’s shoulder.

He shakes the papers, then hands them to me as he launches off, bounding up the stairs.

“I gotta call my lawyer,” he says. “This is just fucked up.”

I peer down at the cover sheet. The heading reads, “Schmidt vs. Manning,” and a few lines below it summarizes the case as follows, “…plaintiff is suing for sole custody of the minor children… on the grounds the defendant cannot provide a safe, healthy environment for children, and has abused them by subjecting them to obscene and immoral behavior…”

“That son of a bitch,” I growl under my breath. “What fucking century does he think he’s living in?”

“What’s going on?”

I look up. Chrissy stands at the end of the hallway, her expression blank with that old familiar fear I recall from months ago when she first came to us.

“Nothing serious, honey,” I lie.

Dillon gives me a dark, anxious look.

“It’s ust stupid grown-up stuff,” I say. “You want waffles for breakfast—or pancakes?”

Chrissy smiles, and we go on about our day—but deep down, it’s clear that everything just changed.