“I want you to understand that I am not your enemy,” she said quietly. “I have been doing this for 22 years. I have watched good, kind people take on more than they could handle, and I have watched children pay the price.”
“I understand, Beverly. I really do.”
“You have no spouse or co-guardian. You do not currently have medical coverage that extends to five dependents. You converted part of your workshop into living quarters, Carter. The court needs proof that it is a safe home for young children.”
“I built solid oak bunk beds. I insulated the walls, installed smoke detectors, and had the electrical system inspected. I installed five car seats in the van last week. I also contacted a pediatrician on Elm Street, and she agreed to accept all five children as new patients.”
Her expression remained unchanged, but something behind her eyes softened for a moment.
Then, she looked down at her clipboard.
“I would like to speak with Eli alone, if that is alright.”
Diane nodded before I could answer.
A minute later, a court aide walked Eli into the room.
He looked at me first, checking for reassurance, just as he had done every hour for the past three weeks.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I told him. “Just answer her questions honestly.”
He nodded once and sat down.
Beverly leaned forward and asked him about school, food, and whether he felt safe with me.
Eli answered in a whisper that I could barely hear while his thumb rubbed the ribbon in tight circles.
When the aide took him back outside, the room felt heavier than before.
Beverly stood, thanked me with genuine kindness, and left.
Diane waited until the door clicked shut.
“Carter, there is something we need to discuss.”
“What is it?”
“The state’s attorney is going to ask you a personal question. He will ask about your background and why you are doing this.”
I felt my jaw tighten.
“He can ask whatever he wants.”
“Carter, listen to me. I have read your file twice. There are gaps that the state’s attorney will notice. If there is something you have not told me, now is the time.”
I stared at a water stain on the ceiling and tried to breathe.
“I have carried this for 20 years, Diane. I have never even told my closest friends. I don’t know whether I can say it in a room full of strangers.”
“You may have to. The judge may need to hear it more than anyone.”
Before I could answer, the bailiff’s voice rang through the door, calling our case.
At the end of the hallway, the courtroom doors swung open.
Daniel, the state’s attorney, rose from his table with the calm posture of a man who had done this hundreds of times.
He did not glance at me as he arranged his charts on the podium.
