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A rustle goes through the courtroom. I hear someone behind us suck in a breath. Lou doesn’t move.

“He tried to save him. At five years old, he called for help. Then when no one came fast enough, he sat beside his baby brother’s body until emergency services arrived. The trauma of that event alone would be enough to break most adults. But Dallas lived through it after years of chronic abuse. The man who’s sitting here today now petitioning for custody?” She gestures without looking. “He knew.”

Rue’s eyes darken. “He knew the kind of woman he left Dallas with. He knew her diagnosis. He knew she wasn’t stable. Yet, he left anyway. Not for weeks. Not for months. For years. No contact. No child support. No welfare check. Nothing.”

I watch the judge’s expression shift, ever so slightly.

“Since being placed in the care of Sheriff Henry Wilder and Ms. Wright, Dallas has shown measurable improvements in emotional regulation, attachment, academic performance, and physical health. The difference is not just notable—it’s life-saving.”

Rue’s voice softens slightly. “For the first time in years, this child feels safe. He sleeps through the night. He eats three meals a day. He trusts the adults in his life. He laughs. He smiles. He belongs.”

Rue glances down at her notes, then looks up, voice firm. “Removing Dallas from his current placement would not just be a disruption—it would be catastrophic. It would break him.”

Lou’s arms fold over her stomach like she’s trying to hold herself together. I reach for her, wrapping a hand around her thigh and sliding her closer to me. She immediately wraps herself around my arm in a suffocating grip.

For a long, breathless moment, no one moves.

Then the judge asks, “Is the child present?”

My heart plummets. A sick, hollow drop straight through my chest.

Rue nods slowly. “Yes, Your Honor. He’s in the waiting room. We can bring him in if necessary.”

Don’t! I want to shout. Please don’t make him do this. Don’t make him carry this too.

But the judge nods.

The bailiff crosses the courtroom and opens the side door, and there he is.

Our boy.

So damn small, standing stiff and fragile in that button-up shirt that scratches his neck and those stiff shoes Lou had to bribe him with some of Sophie's hazelnut cookies just to get him to wear them. He looks like he can barely breathe. Like the weight of this moment is pressing down on his skinny little shoulders and might crush him before he even takes a step.

He hesitates in the doorway—just a flicker—and then walks in like the floor might collapse beneath him.

His eyes search for us, frantic and unsure before they land on Lou—always Lou first—and for a heartbeat, everything in him just…stops.

They guide him forward—past us, away from us—settling him into a single chair in front of the bench. Like he’s not a boy, but a witness in the trial of his own existence.

The judge leans in, voice soft but heavy. “Dallas, do you know why you’re here today?”

He nods once, barely.

“Can you tell me how you feel about your current living situation?”

His throat works. He swallows hard. Eyes flicker sideways—uncertain, guarded.

Then, finally, he turns fully toward Lou. Not me. Her.

Lou’s breath catches, her chest tightening like someone’s just punched her gut. Her fingers tremble, gripping the edge of her seat so hard her nails bite into her palms. Her eyes flicker with a storm—pain, fierce protectiveness, and a raw, aching love all tangled together. For a heartbeat, she looks like she might break, but then she squares her shoulders, forcing herself to be the rock Dallas needs. Yet even as she fights to stay strong, the tight knot of fear and heartbreak settles deep in her bones.

Then in the smallest damn voice I’ve ever heard from him, he says, “They are my home.”

Lou flinches like she’s been shot. But she refuses to look away.

The judge asks more questions. About school. Friends. Daily life. Dallas answers with a kind of mechanical carefulness, like he’s been coached how to survive this. Like he’s used to saying only what’s safe.

Finally, the judge leans in. “Dallas, do you want to live with your biological father?”