I bolt upright. I’m drenched head to toe. I brush my wet hair from my face as I frantically search my room. I dart from my bed to the nursery. I slap a hand over my mouth when a sob escapes at the sight of my sleeping daughter in her crib.

I pant as I attempt to take a full breath. She’s here. Liberty is here with me. She’s not with Hamilton. She’s not in Chicago. I haven’t lost custody of my daughter. It was a dream. It was a horrible dream. It was just a nightmare—my ...