Kidnapping. The word tasted like rust in my mouth. I pressed my lips together, a familiar ache blooming in my lower back. It was the phantom pain from a thousand nights spent in hospital chairs, holding vigil over three small boys who had cried for their mama in fevered dreams, only to have me whisper, “Grandma’s here, baby. Grandma’s always here.”

Judge Morrison, a man whose silver hair and lined face spoke of a lifetime spent witnessing human cruelty, leaned forward. “Mrs. Brown, you’ve been caring for these children since they were three years old?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” my voice came out steadier than I felt.