My son wants to live with me, Your Honor.
Melissa’s voice carried perfectly through the hushed courtroom, her practiced sincerity making me grip the polished wooden bench until my knuckles turned white. Eight months since we buried my son, David, and here we were in the county family court, fighting over the only piece of him left in this world—his twelve-year-old son, Ethan.
The air smelled faintly of old paper and lemon cleaner. An American flag stood in the corner near the state seal, its fringe catching the fluorescent light every time the HVAC kicked on.
I watched my grandson’s shoulders tense under his navy blazer.
Too formal for a boy his age, but Melissa had insisted he look presentable for court.
The same Melissa who couldn’t be bothered to wash his school uniforms, or notice when he went three days wearing the same T-shirt at home.
Judge Carlton—a man whose silver hair and lined face spoke of decades witnessing human conflict—adjusted his glasses and addressed Ethan directly.
“Is that true, young man? Do you want to live with your mother?”
The courtroom fell silent.
Even the bailiff near the door seemed to stop breathing. My attorney squeezed my hand in reassurance, but we both knew the reality: courts favor biological parents.
Despite all our documentation of Melissa’s negligence, despite Ethan spending more nights at my house than his own over the past months, despite everything, she remained his mother.
Ethan stood slowly.
At twelve, he was at that awkward age—no longer a little boy, but not yet a teenager.
Gangly limbs, elbows that never seemed to know what to do, and a voice that occasionally cracked when he tried to sound older than he felt.
David’s eyes looked back at me from his son’s face, and grief surged fresh and sharp through my chest.
“Your Honor,” he began, steadier than I expected, “may I show you something first?”
From his pocket, he pulled out his phone—the one I’d given him for his birthday last month after Melissa forgot their mobile upgrade appointment for the third time.
“I have a recording from last night,” Ethan continued. “I think it will help you understand.”
Melissa’s perfectly composed expression slipped.
“Objection. Your Honor, whatever my son recorded was done without my knowledge or consent.
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