The courtroom felt different that morning—too still, too quiet, like everyone inside was holding their breath without realizing it. Even the scrape of a chair sounded sharp, cutting through the tension. Custody hearings were never gentle, but that day carried a thicker heaviness, the kind that settles on your shoulders and refuses to let go. My ex stood beside his attorney, chin lifted, certainty radiating off him. He kept insisting that our eight-year-old son wanted to live with him, saying it with a confidence that made it sound predetermined, as if the truth had already been decided. The judge listened,...
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