“Mommy, if the judge asks me a question, can I answer honestly?”
I smiled tiredly. “Of course.”
Her gaze stayed on my face. “Even if the answer makes somebody mad?”
“Yes,” I said. “Especially then.”
She nodded slowly and returned to the screen.
At the time I thought it was another child’s abstract anxiety, like asking whether thunder could come through windows or whether her teacher had a life when school ended. I didn’t see the carefulness in her expression. I didn’t notice the way she had begun carrying that tablet more often, tucking it into her backpack even on days when she didn’t ask to use it.
I was too busy surviving my own unraveling.
The hearing date arrived on a gray Thursday morning that felt too quiet for the magnitude of it.