I looked at our daughter, Lily, sitting beside the court-appointed child advocate. She was five years old, small for her age, with pink sneakers that lit up when she moved her feet. Her hands were clenched around a stuffed rabbit I had bought her at the zoo.
I had not seen her in forty-three days.
Forty-three days of ignored calls. Forty-three days of supervised visitation requests denied. Forty-three days of Rebecca posting smiling pictures online while telling the court Lily was “too fragile” to be near me.
My attorney, Claire Donovan, touched my sleeve under the table, warning me not to react.
Judge Marjorie Whitman studied the file in front of her. “Mr. Hale,” she said, “the allegations are serious.”
“I understand,” I replied, my throat tight. “But they’re not true.”
Rebecca shook her head slowly, like she pitied me.
Then Lily made a sound.
It was not crying. It was smaller than that. A breath that got stuck.
Everyone turned.
