Those words didn’t carry the full weight of Lucy’s fear. But they carried enough weight to make the situation real in a way my family couldn’t dismiss.
The day of the first hearing, Chris and I sat in a courtroom that smelled like old wood and paper, Lucy at home with a trusted friend. I didn’t want her near any of it. She deserved to be a child, not evidence.
My parents sat on the other side. My mother looked smaller than she had on my porch, her shoulders hunched, her face pale. My father stared straight ahead, jaw set. Amanda looked furious, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for someone to blame.
When she saw me, her stare sharpened, full of accusation. I didn’t look away.
The prosecutor spoke in a tone that treated the situation like what it was: an endangerment of a child. The defense attorney tried to soften it, to frame it as “a lapse in judgment,” “a misunderstanding,” “no lasting harm.”
I felt my hands curl into fists under the table.
No lasting harm, I thought, watching Lucy’s nightmares in my mind.
Mr. Hoffman leaned toward me and murmured, “Let them talk. The facts are on your side.”