Chapter 4: After Court
Outside the courthouse the January wind cut straight through the blazer.
Nolan held my hand and did not speak until we reached the car. Then he said, “Was the judge mad about the sewing?”
“No,” I said. “The judge listened.”
Ruth was waiting at the apartment with soup and the particular silence of someone who had aged a year in a morning of waiting by the phone. Nolan showed her the hem before I could stop him. She read it, closed her eyes once, and pulled him into a hug that left soup steam forgotten on the stove.
“You brave, foolish boy,” she murmured. “You brilliant boy.”
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Grant’s text arrived while Nolan washed his hands. We need to talk without lawyers. This got out of hand. I did not answer. Out of hand was a man using a child’s worn shirt as a prop. Talking without lawyers was how support had disappeared the first time. I put the phone face down and set the table for three.
That evening Nolan asked whether he had to give the shirt back as evidence. I said the court had photographed what it needed and the shirt was still his. He slept in it. I sat at the kitchen table with the folder and added a dated note about the hearing outcome, then stared at the unpaid bills he had once compared to homework. Easiest first. I paid the smallest one online and slept three hours.
