I stood there in court, trying not to cry as my ex-husband’s lawyer tore me apart in front of the judge. “She’s broke. She can’t even afford a home or decent food and clothes for the kids,” she said with a smirk. “Why should she get them?”

I clenched my jaw and stayed quiet. I could feel my hands shaking, but I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart. The judge nodded slowly, as if he agreed. That moment felt like the air was being sucked out of my chest. All I could think about were my children, Luca and Arya. What would happen if they were taken from me and handed over to a man who only cared about control and appearances?

I couldn’t afford a lawyer like his. I couldn’t afford anything, really. I was barely holding on. But I was there. I showed up, and I was doing everything I could for my kids.

Then, just as I felt myself slipping into that quiet panic where your body is still but your thoughts are screaming, my seven-year-old son stood up. “Mom,” he said loud enough for the courtroom to hear, “can I show the judge the letter I found in Dad’s safe?”