That morning, Luca held my hand as we walked up the courthouse steps. \u201cIs it going to be okay?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
I smiled, but it felt thin. \u201cYes, baby. It\u2019s going to be okay.\u201d But I wasn\u2019t sure of anything.<\/p>\n
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\u2019t have: money, stable housing, reliable transportation. \u201cHer son wears secondhand shoes with holes,\u201d she said. \u201cHer daughter\u2019s teacher says she sometimes skips breakfast. This isn\u2019t neglect; this is poverty. And poverty isn\u2019t a crime, but it is a risk.\u201d<\/p>\n
I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask, \u201cWhere 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?\u201d But I stayed silent. I had learned that in court, anger doesn\u2019t look like strength; it looks like instability.<\/p>\n
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<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"