The silence in the courtroom was so heavy it felt physical. My mother’s hand, which had been resting smugly on her designer handbag, began to tremble. My father, usually a man of booming proclamations, suddenly found a very intense interest in the scuff marks on his leather loafers.
Judge Miller didn’t look at the lawyers. He didn’t look at the stacks of “evidence” my parents had compiled—photos of the farmhouse with overgrown grass or utility bills they’d paid as “proof of care.” He kept his eyes locked on the Silver Star pinned to my chest.
