Some mornings, I still woke convinced I smelled smoke.
Healing wasn’t a door you walked through.
It was a road.
Some days you moved.
Some days you crawled.
Some days you sat in the middle of it and cried.
But we were moving.
Judge Hart folded her hands.
“Michael, when we first met, you were nineteen years old, working two jobs, living in a small apartment, and attempting to raise a traumatized child while grieving your parents.”
I swallowed.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“You were exhausted.”
“Yes.”
“You were angry.”
I almost smiled.
“Very.”
“Several professionals questioned whether someone your age could provide a stable home.”
I nodded.
She glanced toward Vicky.
“Victoria, may I ask you something?”
Vicky sat straighter.
“Okay.”
“Where is home?”
I held my breath.
Vicky thought seriously.
Then she pointed at me.
“Wherever he is.”
My eyes instantly filled.
Judge Hart looked down for a moment.
