The air felt heavy as I sat in the corner of the courtroom, waiting for the proceedings to begin.
It was one of those spaces that seemed to absorb sound, leaving only the hushed whispers of anticipation behind.
Thomas, my nine-year-old foster son, sat next to me, his small frame dwarfed by the wooden bench.
He was silent as ever, his eyes focused on some invisible point just beyond the room’s confines.
I had gotten used to his silence over the past year.
It was a quiet we never tried to fill, a mutual understanding born out of necessity.
People often asked if it was difficult, not hearing a single word from him.
They assumed it must feel isolating, but I knew better.
His silence spoke volumes.
There were days when he would communicate with a simple nod, a slight shift in posture, or a fleeting smile that brightened his face like a sunrise.
Today’s hearing was important.
It was about Thomas’s future, about whether he would stay with me or be moved to another home.
The stakes were high, and I felt the weight of it pressing down on my shoulders.
The judge entered the room, a woman with an air of authority softened by empathy.
She glanced over her glasses at the files before her, then at us.
“Are you ready to begin?” she asked, her voice steady and calm.
I nodded, even as my heart raced.
This was it.
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