When he lowered his hand, the sharper edge of the room seemed to soften with it.
“Daniel, sit down for a moment,” the judge said quietly.
Daniel blinked, then returned to his seat.
The judge looked directly at me, not at my file.
“Son,” he said, “I have served on this bench for 28 years. I would like to hear the real reason in your own words. Take your time.”
I gripped the edge of the witness stand until my knuckles ached.
Then, I forced myself to speak.
“Twenty years ago,” I began.
The words caught somewhere deep inside me, in a place I could not reach.
I tried again.
“Twenty years ago, in this same courthouse, I sat where those children are sitting now.”
The judge set down his pen.
His eyes moved toward the file beside him and then returned to me.
Something in his expression changed as a slow, quiet recognition settled over his face.
“I was one of five children,” I continued. “Our parents died in a fire.”
I stopped again.
I could feel Diane watching me, but I made myself continue.
“A judge signed an order that separated us and sent us to homes in three different counties. It happened in this building. It may even have happened in this courtroom. I don’t know.”
