You’ve been fighting for months.

Paperwork. Meetings. Evaluations. Court dates that leave you nauseous the night before.

You told yourself you were prepared for any outcome.

You weren’t.

When the judge says the words — custody granted elsewhere — it doesn’t even register at first.

Then it does. And something inside you snaps.

Because that’s your child.

⸻

Courtroom.

The room feels too small.

Too bright. Too official.

You hear the ruling.

Your ears ring.

“No,” you breathe.

It comes out broken.

The judge continues speaking, but you’re not listening anymore.

You stand abruptly.

“That’s my son,” you choke out.

Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor.

Across the room you see him — being guided away.

You move without thinking.

“Wait—” your voice cracks. “I need to talk to him. Please. Please.”

The bailiff steps slightly in front. And then—

Strong arms wrap around you from behind.

Firm. Grounded. It’s her.

“Hey,” she says low, close to your ear. “Hey. Breathe.”

“Let me go!” you cry, trying to shove her off. “That’s my baby—”

You twist, pushing at her forearms, but she doesn’t let go.

She doesn’t hurt you. She just anchors you.

“You can’t run at them,” she says steadily. “It will make this worse.”

“I don’t care!” you sob. “I don’t care, I need him—”

Your body is shaking now. People are staring.

You try to step forward again, but she shifts, placing herself slightly in front of you while still holding your arms.

“Look at me,” she says firmly.

You’re crying too hard to focus.

“He’s scared,” you gasp. “He’s going to think I didn’t fight—”

“You fought,” she says immediately. “You fought every day.”

You shove at her chest weakly.

“Move!”

She holds you steady.

“Listen to me.”

Her voice doesn’t rise.

But it cuts through the noise.

“If you lunge at them right now, they will use it against you.”