The courtroom was silent as I stood before the judge and spoke about a memory I had spent years trying to forget. When I was nine years old, I had sat in that very courthouse with my four siblings after our parents died. We held hands until a judge separated us into different foster homes across three counties. I never saw two of them again. My attorney slowly lowered his pen, Beverly set aside her clipboard, and even the state’s attorney stopped speaking. I explained that my mortgage payments were current, my work as a carpenter provided a reliable income, my insurance could be expanded, and I had built an investment plan that would support the five children without exhausting the modest estate my parents had left me. Every word came from experience instead of preparation.

The judge turned to Eli and quietly asked him where he wanted to live. The frightened boy looked at his younger siblings before answering, “I want us to stay together.” No one spoke for several seconds. The judge carefully reviewed the inspection reports, financial records, and Beverly’s supervision plan. Finally, he placed the documents on his desk, adjusted his glasses, and slowly began reading the court’s decision. Before anyone could react, another voice suddenly interrupted the courtroom…