The answer is sitting in the third row of the gallery, her small hands wrapped around a pink phone case covered in peeling stars, her dark hair pinned back with a velvet ribbon she has been nervously twisting for the last twenty minutes.
She is eleven years old.
Her name is Alma Maldonado, and everyone in that courtroom knows she is Valentina Maldonado’s daughter. Everyone except you also knows what that means in practical terms. It means private schools, drivers, a house with marble staircases and imported chandeliers, weekend charity galas, and the kind of wealth that makes strangers lower their voices when they say your employer’s last name.
But what nobody in that room seems to understand yet is that Alma has your eyes.
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