I wanted to stop everything.
I wanted to tell the judge we needed a break.
I wanted to put my body between Alan and every expectation in the room.
But before I could speak, Judge Cole said quietly, “There’s no hurry.”
Alan looked at her.
She leaned back slightly.
Not forward.
Not pressing.
“You’ve had many adults ask things of you, haven’t you?”
His throat moved.
She did not expect an answer.
“I am asking only because the law requires me to understand your wishes.”
Alan looked at the blank page.
“If you cannot answer today, that does not mean you’ve done anything wrong.”
His eyes squeezed shut.
I recognized that expression.
I’d seen it the night outside his bedroom.
The sound.
The struggle.
He was fighting something inside himself.
I whispered, “Alan.”
His eyes opened.
I should not have spoken.
I knew that immediately.
So I said the only thing that mattered.
“You don’t have to.”
He looked at me.
“You don’t owe us words.”
His eyes filled.
“We already understand each other.”
A tear slipped down his cheek.
My own vision blurred.
“Whatever happens, I’m still here.”
The judge gave us silence.
True silence.
Not the kind people use while waiting impatiently for someone to perform.
The kind that makes room.
Alan closed the notebook.
His attorney leaned slightly toward him.
“Do you want me to answer for you?” she whispered.
He shook his head.
No.
Then he put both hands flat on the table.
I saw his fingers trembling.
He inhaled.
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
My heart cracked.
He closed his mouth.
Breathed again.
I wanted to tell him to stop.
To protect himself.
Then I remembered the sounds from behind his bedroom door.
He had been doing this alone.
Practicing.
Trying.
Not because he owed us anything.
Because there was something he had decided he wanted to say.
Judge Cole waited.
Alan opened his mouth again.
A rough sound escaped.
Tiny.
Raw.
The kind of sound most people would have ignored.
I heard it like thunder.
My entire body went cold.
Karen’s hand flew to her mouth.
Alan swallowed.
His face twisted with effort.
And then I heard my foster son’s voice for the first time.
Thin.
Hoarse.
Frightened.
But unmistakably his.
