Elior leaned into my hands, eyes fluttering closed for half a second. Then he opened them again, clearer than I expected.
“I want to do it.”
“Elior, you don’t understand what you’re agreeing to.”
“Maybe not completely,” he answered. “But if it’s just telling the truth, then I think it’ll be okay.”
Patel cleared his throat. “I can step outside—”
“No,” Elior said, surprising both of us. He turned his head slightly, still keeping one cheek pressed into my palm. “You can stay. I don’t want to do this twice.”
I didn’t like that sentence. Not one bit.
I lowered my hands but stayed close enough that my thigh brushed his, a silent reminder that I wasn’t going anywhere. “Talk to me,” I said quietly. “Not him. Me.”
Elior took a breath. Then another. He looked past us, not at anything specific, more like he was staring down a long hallway only he could see.
“All my life,” he said, “Father spoke for me. Father told the story. I want him to watch as I finally speak for myself.” His fingers twisted in the hem of his sleeve. “And… it would be nice if everyone didn’t think I’m a murderer.”
My jaw clenched.
Patel shifted. “Elior, I need you to understand—this would be hard. The defense will—”
One look shut him up.
“If it will help bring Father to justice, then I want to do it.”
I crouched in front of him, mirroring him without thinking, hands resting lightly on his knees. “Baby,” I said carefully, “testifying means reliving it. On record. Under oath. They will ask things I can’t stop.”
“I know it’ll be hard, Daddy, but I want to try.” A bit shyly, he added, “Please.”
The room went very quiet.
I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to his. “It’ll be your fault if I have to shoot up a courtroom.”
He laughed, the sound so precious in my mind.
“That wasn’t a serious threat,” I threw over my shoulder to Patel.
It totally was.
* * *
A few weeks later, the courthouse loomed like a beast waiting to be fed.
But that cameafterthe in-between. After the slow and meticulous work of getting Elior ready without breaking him in the process.
I didn’t realize at first that it would feel like training for war.
It started small.
We practiced sitting.
That sounds stupid, but the stand isn’t forgiving—hard chair, no place to hide your hands, nowhere to curl in on yourself without looking evasive. Elior had a habit of folding inward when he got overwhelmed, shoulders caving, chin dipping. So we worked on it. Feet flat. Back against the chair.
We practiced breathing until it stopped being something he had to think about.
Patel frequently came by with binders and outlines. I stayed in the room every time. Sometimes standing behind Elior, sometimes kneeling beside him, sometimes just close enough that he could feel me there without looking.
