Phoebe tugged gently at my sleeve and whispered my name, her voice hesitant, and before I could respond she slid off the bench and walked forward with a calm that did not belong to a child of seven. The sound of her sneakers against the floor echoed too loudly in the quiet room, and I felt my heart stumble as every adult turned to look at her.
She stopped just short of the bench, craned her neck upward, and spoke in a clear voice that carried farther than I expected.
“Excuse me,” she said politely. “May I show you something, Your Honor.”
The room seemed to hold its breath.
I was on my feet instantly, panic rising, but the judge raised a hand in a gentle motion that stilled everyone.
“What do you have to show me,” the judge asked, her tone kind but attentive.
Phoebe hugged her backpack closer. “It is a video. I recorded it myself. My mom does not know about it.”
My pulse roared in my ears, because there are few things more terrifying than realizing your child has been carrying something alone, something important enough to bring into a courtroom without your guidance.