In court, my ex said, “my son wants to live with me.” the judge asked my son, “is that true?” my son stood up, pulled out his phone, and asked, “may I play the recording from last night?” the judge froze.

The courtroom was quiet, not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful, but the kind that makes your heart thump louder than it should. My son, Zaden, sat just a few feet away from me, his little legs swinging off the edge of the wooden bench. He was only eight, but his face was older that day, like he’d aged in the minutes we’d been sitting there.

Damian, my ex-husband, stood tall beside his lawyer. He wore that same smirk he always did when he thought he was winning. He looked straight ahead, not at me, not at our son.