Chapter 7 - A Quiet Church Parking Lot
Sarah didn't turn the steering wheel toward the Department of Children and Family Services annex. Instead, she guided her dark sedan down a quiet, residential side street overhung by sprawling live oak trees, their heavy branches dripping with Spanish moss. The afternoon heat hung thick and humid, blurring the asphalt ahead with faint mirage ripples. We drove in silence for several blocks until Sarah pulled into an empty asphalt church parking lot behind a red-brick building with a tall white steeple. The parking lot was completely deserted, bordered by a chain-link fence and a high row of green privet hedges that blocked out the hum of distant highway traffic.
She cut the ignition, letting the engine die with a soft tick as the metal cooled. The sudden quiet felt immense, pressing against the car windows like a physical weight. Outside, the steady, rhythmic drone of cicadas rose from the tree line, a high-pitched vibration that seemed to fill the entire afternoon.
Sarah unbuckled her seatbelt and rested her hands on the steering wheel, staring out through the windshield at a rusted basketball hoop standing lonesome at the edge of the asphalt. She didn't look at me right away, giving me space to breathe without the glare of fluorescent office lights or the ticking of courtroom clocks.
"My first real case wasn't anything like this," Sarah said quietly, her voice measured and low. She turned her head slightly to look at me, her expression soft under the shadow of her dark blazer. "I was twenty-four, fresh out of law school, and I thought the system worked like a machine. You file the paperwork, the judge reads the reports, and everything gets fixed. But I sat right where you were sitting—well, not in a courtroom, but in a kitchen with a little boy who wouldn't let go of his sister's shoe. He thought if he had her shoe, she couldn't walk away from him."
I looked down at my white shoes, scuffed slightly from the courthouse floor, and wiggled my toes inside them. The memory of the microphone stand and the judge's white hair flashed through my mind, making my chest tighten.
"Did he get to go home?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the cicadas.
"It took three months," Sarah answered honestly, not sugarcoating the timeline. "And those three months were hard. He cried every night, and I drove him to every visit. But he made it home because he didn't stop telling people what he needed. Just like you did today."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small bottled water, twisting the cap off before handing it to me. I took it, the cold plastic feeling good against my warm fingers, and took a small sip.
"We have a few days before the review hearing," Sarah said, shifting slightly in her seat to face me more fully. "The judge is going to want to hear from you again. Not in front of the cameras this time, and not with the whole gallery watching. Just in his chambers, or at the podium with a clear head. Let's practice what you want to say. No rushing, no pressure. Just the truth."
I swallowed, the cold water calming the dry tightness in my throat. I cleared my voice, testing the sound in the small, quiet confines of the car.
"I want my brother to come home," I said, repeating the words that had echoed off the courtroom's wood-paneled walls.
"Good," Sarah nodded, her eyes encouraging. "Keep your voice steady. Don't let them rush you. When the judge asks you why, what are you going to tell him about your brother?"
"I'll tell him he helps me with my homework," I said, looking out the side window at the swaying oak leaves. "And he makes sure I eat breakfast before the school bus comes. He takes care of me when mom is... when mom isn't there."
"That's real," Sarah said softly. "The judge needs to hear that part. Not just that you miss him, but what his presence means for your daily life. The routine. The stability."
We sat in the shaded parking lot for a long time, running through the simple, heavy truths of our life. Whenever my voice wavered, Sarah didn't interrupt; she just let me pause, listening to the cicadas hum in the trees until I found my breath again. It wasn't a magic fix, and it didn't change the fact that my brother was still miles away in a temporary intake facility, but for the first time since the courtroom doors had swung open, the knot in my stomach loosened just a fraction.
After a while, Sarah checked her watch, the sharp click of her wrist turning sounding loud in the quiet car. She started the engine, the low hum of the sedan vibrating through the floorboards.
"Ready?" she asked gently.
May you like
I nodded, gripping the strap of my bag in my lap, and we pulled out of the church parking lot, heading toward the suburban street where the temporary foster home was waiting for me.
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