Postpartum depression. She wielded the term like a shield, as if it could explain abandoning three toddlers who cried themselves to sleep for months, who hoarded crackers under their beds because they lived with the gnawing fear that the food might run out tomorrow.

“Mrs. Brown,” Judge Morrison’s voice pulled me back. “Do you have documentation of your guardianship?”

This was it. My moment. I stood slowly, my knees protesting. “I do, Your Honor. But I would like to present something else first.”