“I promise that I’m going to try harder than I’ve ever tried at anything.”
He nodded once, as though that answer was enough, and turned back to his sister.
Then, the bailiff stepped into the hallway and called our case number.
Diane, my attorney, pulled me into a small side room the moment the court recessed.
“They moved quickly, Carter,” she said. “They arranged everything overnight.”
“How quickly?”
“Three transport vans are scheduled for Friday. The children will be sent to three different counties.”
I set the folder of receipts on the table, but my hand did not want to release it.
Five days. That was all they were giving me.
“Diane, tell me the truth. What are my chances in there?”
“Honestly? They are slim. The judge does not usually approve single applicants, especially young applicants with no parenting experience.”
Before I could respond, the door opened, and Beverly, the senior caseworker, stepped inside with a clipboard.
“Carter, may I sit down?”
“Please.”
She sat and folded her hands in the practiced manner that social workers often used.
I had seen that same posture across a desk many years earlier, and my stomach tightened before I could stop it.
“I want you to understand that I am not your enemy,” she said quietly. “I have been doing this for 22 years. I have watched good, kind people take on more than they could handle, and I have watched children pay the price.”
“I understand, Beverly. I really do.”
