On the morning of the hearing, I stood outside the courtroom holding my three-month-old daughter against my chest.
Emily was asleep, one tiny hand curled around the edge of my blouse.
I looked down at her peaceful face and tried to steady my breathing.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” I whispered. “Mama is here.”
My daughter Susan was sitting across the corridor with her lawyer.
She wouldn’t look at me.
My son Michael stood beside her, reading through a thick folder of documents.
I knew what was inside.
Medical reports.
Property records.
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