The courtroom was quiet, not the kind of quiet that feels
peaceful, but the kind that makes your heart thump louder than it should.
My son, Zaden, sat just a few feet away from me, his little legs swinging off the edge of the wooden bench.
He was only eight, but his face was older that day, like he’d aged in the minutes we’d been sitting there.
Damian, my ex-husband, stood tall beside his lawyer.
He wore that same smirk he always did when he thought
he was winning. He looked straight ahead, not at me, not at our son.
