My son has a prosthetic leg. He's been treated by the best team in Europe, in Utrecht. They know him. They know his body. They know how he grows and how the prosthesis needs to adapt.
His mother wants to transfer him to Amsterdam. Different team. Worse outcomes by every measure. But closer to her.
I fought this. Not because I want to control anything. Because I've sat in that waiting room. I've watched the specialists adjust the fit. I've seen my son walk in with a limp and walk out standing straight. These people know what they're doing.
The court has to decide. A court that has a file on me that says I'm difficult, aggressive, possibly delusional. A file built from a therapist's betrayal and a social worker's one-sided report and a police record from a different country in a different decade.
My son doesn't know any of this. He doesn't know his father is fighting for his leg in a courtroom where the judge has already read a version of his father that doesn't exist.
One day he'll read this. I want him to know: I fought. Not for custody. Not for control. For his leg. For the team that knows how to keep him walking.