Now, four months later, that shirt was on a poster board in a courtroom, being used to argue that I couldn’t take care of my own child.
As Mr. Carroway held up the photograph, I thought about the pawn shop. About Walt Harmon tying a little tag to my grandmother’s locket. About Nolan gasping on his birthday morning.
I’d given up the last piece of my family’s history to make my son happy. And Grant had found a way to use even that against me.
I looked across the courtroom at Grant.
I don’t know what I was hoping for. Some small sign of guilt. A flicker of shame. Something human.
He was leaning back in his chair with one arm over the back of it. He was smiling.
Judge Halloway studied the photograph for a long moment. Then she looked at me.
“Mrs. Bellamy,” she said. “You’re representing yourself today?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Would you like to respond to this exhibit?”
I stood up. My legs were shaking.
“Your Honor,” I said. “That’s his favorite shirt. I bought it for his birthday. I washed it four times this week. The stains won’t come out.”
My voice cracked. I tried to steady it.
“He wears it because he loves it,” I said. “Not because he doesn’t have anything else.”
Mr. Carroway smiled politely.
“Your Honor,” he said, “with respect, a child’s favorite shirt is no excuse for sending him to school in visibly soiled clothing. Mrs. Bellamy’s explanation only confirms our concern. She is unable to keep up with her son’s basic needs.”
The judge wrote something on her notepad. My stomach dropped.
I sat back down. I opened my folder. I looked at all the papers inside, the bank statements and receipts and printed text messages, and I realized none of them explained a stained shirt.
