I could feel her eyes on the back of my neck.
Seven years old.
Seven years of scraped knees and bedtime stories and the particular way she liked her pancakes cut into triangles instead of squares.
Seven years of being the center of my world.
Langford closed the folder with a soft snap.
“Your Honor,” he said gently, “the court must consider the long-term wellbeing of the child. Emotional devotion is admirable, but financial reality cannot be ignored.”
The judge scribbled something in his notebook.
My stomach dropped.
Because what Langford was saying wasn’t entirely false.
I did work two jobs.
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