Diane, my lawyer, pulled me into a small side room as soon as the court recessed.
“They acted quickly, Carter,” she said. “They organized everything overnight.”
“How quickly?”
“Three transport vans are scheduled for Friday. The children will be placed in three separate counties.”
I placed the folder of receipts on the table, but my hand seemed unwilling to let it go.
Five days. That was everything they were giving me.
“Diane, give me the truth. What are my chances there?”
“Honestly? They are slim. The judge does not often approve single applicants, especially younger applicants without any parenting experience.”
Before I could answer, the door opened, and Beverly, the senior caseworker, walked inside carrying a clipboard.
“Carter, may I sit down?”
“Please.”
She sat down and clasped her hands in the practiced way that social workers so often did.
I had seen that identical posture across a desk many years before, and my stomach tightened before I could control it.
“I want you to know that I am not your enemy,” she said softly. “I have been doing this for 22 years. I have seen good, caring people take on more than they could manage, and I have watched children suffer the consequences.”
“I understand, Beverly. I truly do.”
“You have no spouse or co-guardian. You do not presently have medical coverage that extends to five dependents. You transformed part of your workshop into living quarters, Carter. The court requires proof that it is a safe home for small children.”