Years later, when I look back on that season, I do not remember the legal terminology as clearly as I remember textures. The rough rubber edge of Lily’s purple tablet in my hands after the hearing. The paper napkin she used to dry my tears in the diner because children always want to reverse rescue once the danger passes. The vinyl bench under our legs. The smell of courthouse coffee. The little blue dress she outgrew far too soon. The sound of Judge Tanner saying, Thank you, Lily. That was very brave.
There are nights even now when I wake from dreams of that courtroom and feel again the terror of not knowing what she was about to show. In the dream, the screen flickers on and on it is not a video but a mirror, and I am forced to watch the woman I was then: tired, frightened, trying to smile in all the wrong places, thinking endurance alone counted as protection.