It was the kind of scent that clung to your clothes long after you left.
I sat on a hard wooden bench with sawdust still ghosting the seams of my boots and a borrowed tie pressing awkwardly against my throat.
Across from me, five small children sat in a row that was far too neat for their ages.
Eli, the oldest at six, quietly wiped his little sister’s cheeks with the edge of his shirt.
« It’s okay, Lila, » he whispered. « We just have to wait a little longer. »
I pressed the folder of receipts and legal papers against my knee, willing my hands to stop trembling.
Farther down the corridor, another child sat on a bench beside a caseworker, swinging his feet against the wood.
The social worker glanced up, caught my eye, and gave me the softest, saddest smile I had ever received.
