I stared at a water mark on the ceiling and struggled to breathe.

“I have carried this for 20 years, Diane. I have never even told my best friends. I don’t know if I can say it in a room filled with strangers.”

“You may need to. The judge might need to hear it more than anybody.”

Before I could respond, the bailiff’s voice echoed through the door, calling our case.

At the far end of the hallway, the courtroom doors opened wide.

Daniel, the state’s attorney, stood from his table with the composed posture of a man who had done this hundreds of times.

He never looked at me as he organized his charts on the podium.

“Your Honor, I want to start by acknowledging that Carter’s intentions seem genuine,” he said. “However, good intentions alone cannot raise five children under the age of seven.”

“His residence is a converted workshop area that has not yet received final approval for foster placement. He has no spouse, no co-guardian, no existing medical plan capable of covering five dependents, and, respectfully, no parenting experience.”

The judge studied me above the rims of his glasses.

I could feel every eye in the courtroom land on my borrowed tie.

“The state has three approved foster homes ready to receive these children by Friday,” Daniel continued. “Their separation is unfortunate, but the state must prioritize stability.”

Diane leaned closer to me.

“Stay calm,” she murmured. “Answer only what he asks.”

I stepped onto the stand.

My hands seemed too large against the wooden rail.