Chương 1
"""The bailiff had already opened the side door to bring the children into Courtroom 3B when Judge Lawson raised one hand and asked me why I was trying to keep five strangers from being separated.
The door stopped halfway, and through the narrow opening I saw six-year-old Leo bend over his little sister as if his small body could shield all four of them from whatever adults decided next.
My attorney, Rachel Kim, had warned me not to improvise.
Answer only what you are asked, she had said in the hallway.
Do not make speeches.
Do not try to save yourself with emotion.
Family court had apparently seen enough emotion to develop an allergy to it.
I looked at Judge Lawson and said, “Because I know what happens to the oldest one.”
The state’s attorney stopped turning pages.
Judge Lawson’s face barely changed.
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Vance?”
I rubbed my thumb across the side of my index finger, where a woodworking chisel had left a white scar years ago.
“I mean everybody keeps talking about five children being divided into three placements.”
I nodded toward the door.
“But if you do that, you’re not placing five children.”
“You’re turning one of them into a parent.”
Nobody interrupted me.
I wished somebody would.
Silence made the words harder to hide behind.
“My mother died when I was eight,” I said.
“My father was technically alive, but that was about the extent of his contribution.”
Rachel lowered her pen.
I had told her my mother was dead.
I had not told her the rest.
“There were three of us.”
“My sister was five, and my brother had just turned two.”
“We went into care together.”
The judge glanced down at my file.
“That history isn’t in your guardianship petition.”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t want it to look like I was doing this because of myself.”
The answer sounded stupid once it was loose in the room.
Maybe it was stupid.
Judge Lawson leaned back.
“Continue.”
“Our first foster home lasted eleven days.”
“The second lasted four months.”
“The third family would take my brother and sister, but not me.”
I swallowed.
“There wasn’t anything dramatic about it.”
“They weren’t monsters.”
“They had two kids already, and their house was small, and I was angry all the time.”
“I stole food even when there was food in the kitchen.”
“I slept in my shoes.”
“I punched a hole in a closet door.”
“The foster father said he couldn’t have me frightening the younger children.”
I heard a chair creak behind me.
“So they moved me.”
I looked at the wooden rail instead of the judge.
“My sister screamed when the caseworker put me in the car.”
“My brother didn’t understand.”
“He thought I was going to the store.”
“For about six months, I kept telling them I’d come back.”
“I believed it for maybe the first two.”
The state’s attorney, Martin Hale, had spent the morning describing me as impulsive, financially unstable, and dangerously unprepared.
He was looking at me differently now, which irritated me more than it comforted me.
I had not come there to be pitied into winning.
Judge Lawson said, “And what happened to your siblings?”
“My brother was adopted by that family.”
“My sister stayed there for another year and then moved twice.”
“We found each other again when we were adults.”
The judge waited.
I knew what he was waiting for.
“We’re not close.”
There it was.
The small ugly truth beneath the larger sad one.
People liked reunion stories because reunion stories ended at the airport.
Nobody made movies about the breakfast six months later when three adults discovered they shared DNA, grief, and almost nothing else.
“My sister sends me pictures of her dog,” I said.
A faint sound came from somewhere behind Rachel, almost a laugh and almost a cough.
“My brother lives in Arizona.”
“We text on birthdays.”
“That’s mostly it.”
Judge Lawson folded his hands.
“So when you saw these children—”
“I saw Leo.”
The judge’s eyes shifted toward the door.
I continued before I could make the answer prettier than it deserved.
“I saw a kid holding everybody together because none of the adults around him could promise they’d stay together.”
“That does something to you.”
“At least it did something to me.”
Hale stood slowly.
“Your Honor, may I?”
Judge Lawson nodded.
Hale came around his table but did not approach me the way television lawyers did.
He stayed several feet away, holding his legal pad against his stomach.
“Mr. Vance, what you experienced was terrible.”
I stared at him.
“But personal identification with a child is not evidence that you can parent five children.”
“No.”
“Five traumatized children.”
“Yes.”
“One of whom is an infant.”
“Yes.”
“You have never changed a diaper on a regular basis, correct?”
“Correct.”
“You have never managed pediatric appointments for five children.”
“No.”
“School enrollment?”
“No.”
“Trauma therapy?”
“No.”
“Night terrors?”
“Not somebody else’s.”
Hale paused.
Rachel shut her eyes for half a second.
I could practically hear her writing my murder confession in her imagination.
Hale said, “You understand that your own difficult childhood may actually impair your judgment here?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you spent most of your liquid savings before the court had approved you.”
“Yes.”
“You purchased a vehicle.”
“Yes.”
“Five child seats.”
“Four car seats and a booster.”
“That distinction is not especially helpful to my point.”
“It was expensive enough that I feel like it should count.”
This time somebody definitely laughed.
Even Judge Lawson’s mouth moved slightly before settling again.
Hale did not smile.
“What happens when one child is vomiting, another has a nightmare, the baby needs feeding, and you have to be at work at seven?”
“I probably don’t get to work at seven.”
“And then?”
“I lose money.”
“And eventually?”
“I figure out a different schedule or I lose the business.”
May you like
Hale stared at me.
That was the answer nobody seemed to want.
