Rachel shifted in her seat. I saw the flash of something in her eyes—guilt, maybe, or fear—before the mask of serene victimhood slipped back into place. She had always been beautiful. Even now, at thirty-eight, she possessed an ethereal quality that made people want to protect her, to believe whatever story she spun. It had taken me years to see the cold, hard calculation beneath that fragile beauty.

“Your Honor,” her lawyer interjected smoothly, “my client was struggling. Postpartum depression, addiction… she needed time to heal. That does not negate her parental rights.”