He had told himself that certain decisions were difficult but correct.
He had told himself that a judge had to understand consequences better than anyone else.
Yet now, standing before him, was a five-year-old child who looked at him as though she had been waiting her entire life to meet him.
“Emily,” Everett finally said.
The little girl’s face brightened.
“That’s Mommy.”
Everett’s chest tightened.
He looked toward the clerk.
“Take a short recess.”
No one questioned him.
The courtroom began to stir, but Everett barely noticed.
He remained focused on the child.
“What’s your name?”
She answered softly.
“Lily.”
Everett nodded.
“Lily.”
She smiled.
“Mommy said you would know my name.”
He could not answer.
There were too many questions.
Why had Emily returned?
Why had she sent Lily into his courtroom?
Why had she waited five years?
And why had she called him Grandpa?
The phone was still in Lily’s hand.
Then Emily spoke again.
“Dad, I didn’t know where else to bring her.”
Everett looked toward the speaker.
“You could have called me.”
There was a long silence.
“I tried.”
Those two words struck harder than anything else.
Everett looked down.
He remembered an old address.
An old phone number.
An envelope he had never opened.
For years, he had believed that Emily was the one who had chosen to disappear.
But suddenly, he wondered whether he had ever known the whole story.
“Why didn’t I hear from you?”
Emily’s voice trembled.
“Because every time I tried, I was told you didn’t want anything to do with me.”
Everett’s face hardened.
“Who told you that?”
Emily did not answer immediately.
Lily looked between the phone and Everett.
Then she whispered, “Mommy said you were very busy.”
Everett looked at the child.
His heart sank.
Busy.
That was the excuse he had always used.
Busy with court.
Busy with cases.
Busy with responsibilities.
Busy enough to avoid facing the one responsibility that mattered most.
