That morning, Luca held my hand as we walked up the courthouse steps. “Is it going to be okay?” he asked.

I smiled, but it felt thin. “Yes, baby. It’s going to be okay.” But I wasn’t sure of anything.

Inside the courtroom, I sat straight and still. I watched Derek avoid eye contact. I listened as his lawyer, Carlaine, listed off everything I didn’t have: money, stable housing, reliable transportation. “Her son wears secondhand shoes with holes,” she said. “Her daughter’s teacher says she sometimes skips breakfast. This isn’t neglect; this is poverty. And poverty isn’t a crime, but it is a risk.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask, “Where were you when I was skipping dinner to make sure there was enough cereal left? Where were you when I was selling my wedding ring to buy coats for the winter?” But I stayed silent. I had learned that in court, anger doesn’t look like strength; it looks like instability.