Behind Rachel, I saw them—my boys, my grandsons. At seventeen, they were young men, towering over most adults in the room. Daniel sat between his brothers, his jaw clenched in a way that was a painful echo of their father. Marcus had his hands folded, knuckles white. David, the youngest, stared at the floor as if he could will himself to disappear into the worn carpet. They didn’t know about the envelope. Not yet. They didn’t know what their mother had truly done.

“And during this time,” the judge continued, “the mother had no contact?”

“She visited twice,” I said, choosing my words with care. “Once when they were eight, asking for money. Once when they were twelve. She stayed for three days before leaving again.”