The courtroom felt different that morning—too still, too quiet, like everyone inside was holding their breath without realizing it. Even the scrape of a chair sounded sharp, slicing through the tension. Custody hearings were never gentle, but that day carried a weight that settled on your shoulders and refused to let go.
My ex stood beside his attorney, chin lifted, radiating certainty. He insisted that our eight-year-old son wanted to live with him, saying it with the confidence of someone delivering a predetermined truth. The judge listened, expression unreadable, then turned to Zaden.
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