I thought about my daughter. About the insulin we needed. About the three jobs I was barely holding together.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll testify.”
The custody hearing happened two weeks later. Victoria’s lawyers came out swinging.
“Ms. Carter,” the attorney began, “you have no psychology degree, correct?”
“Correct.”
“No medical training?”
“Correct.”
“In fact, you’re a cleaning woman with a troubled past. Multiple foster homes. No stable relationships. A daughter born out of wedlock.” He smiled. “What makes you qualified to advise Richard Sterling on his daughter’s care?”
“I never said I was qualified.”
“Then why should this court listen to anything you have to say?”
I looked at Amelia, sitting next to her father. She was watching me with wide eyes.
“Because I lived it,” I said quietly. “I know what it’s like to have people talk about you like you’re not in the room. To have doctors and therapists treat you like a specimen instead of a person.”
“That’s not evidence-based care—”