He wore dark slacks, a white shirt, and a navy sweater.
No tie.
He had tried one on the week before and hated the feeling around his throat.
I refused to make him wear it.
His hair was combed.
His hands trembled.
“You have everything?”
Two taps.
He checked his backpack anyway.
Notebook.
Pen.
Tablet.
Adoption paperwork.
A smooth gray stone Dr. Patel had given him for grounding.
I picked up my purse.
My keys were already beside it.
Alan had put them there.
Of course.
We drove to the courthouse without music.
Halfway there, I said, “We can still ask for accommodations.”
He looked out the window.
“You can write every answer.”
His hand tightened around the gray stone.
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
No response.
When we parked, neither of us moved.
The courthouse stood ahead of us.
Gray stone.
Wide steps.
Tall windows reflecting a pale winter sky.
“Scary building,” I said.
Alan looked at me.
“Very dramatic.”
His mouth twitched.
Thank God.
I smiled.
“Ready?”
He didn’t tap.
Instead, he opened the door.
We walked inside together.
PART 5: SHE ALREADY IS
The courtroom was smaller than I expected.
That made everything feel more intimate.
More exposed.
There were no television cameras.
No dramatic crowd.
Just polished wood, fluorescent lights, legal files, quiet conversations, and people who had enormous power over our lives speaking in ordinary voices.
Karen was there.
Alan’s attorney, Ms. Foster, was there.
Dr. Patel had submitted a letter but was not required to attend.
A court clerk shuffled papers near the front.
I sat beside Alan.
His knee bounced under the table.
I had seen him anxious thousands of times.
Never like this.
I wanted to take his hand.
Instead, I placed mine palm-up on my own knee.
An offer.
Nothing more.
For several minutes, he did not move.
Then his little finger touched mine.
Only the side of it.
Barely contact.
But I felt it through my entire body.
The judge entered.
We stood.
Judge Marianne Cole looked to be in her sixties.
Silver hair.
Glasses.
Calm face.
She reviewed the documents in front of her.
My name was stated.
Alan’s name was stated.
Case numbers.
Dates.
Formal language.
I answered questions.
Yes, I understood the legal responsibilities of adoption.
Yes, I understood that it was permanent.
Yes, I was willing to provide for Alan.
Yes, I wanted to become his legal parent.
Then the judge asked me something I had not expected.
“Ms. Bennett, why do you want to adopt Alan?”
I looked at him.
His eyes remained on the table.
Every prepared sentence disappeared from my head.
I could have talked about stability.
