Across the room sat my ex-husband, Collin, in a charcoal suit and a silver watch that cost more than I made in half a year.
Beside him was Barrett Kline, an attorney whose fee could have paid my rent for a year.
I had no one.
Our daughter, Lark, eight years old, sat beside me with her feet swinging because they couldn’t reach the floor, in her favorite faded navy shirt with a little embroidered moon.
Kline stood and held up a large photograph of Lark leaving school — hair messy, stains across the front of that navy shirt.
“Your Honor, loving a child doesn’t excuse financial instability or unsuitable conditions,” he said. “The child frequently wears soiled clothing. Her mother works irregular hours and lives in an apartment unfit to raise her.”
Lark’s cheeks went red, and she stared at her lap.
Watching my little girl be shamed in front of strangers, while her father sat there smiling, was almost more than I could bear.
