“Can you repeat that, attorney?” Daniel asked, his voice low but tight, like he was afraid that if he raised it even a little, it would crack.
They were seated in a quiet, neutral conference room—glass walls frosted just enough to blur the city beyond. Marian sat beside him, her hands folded in her lap, knuckles pale. The air smelled faintly of coffee and paper, and the hum of the overhead lights felt unbearably loud.
The attorney—a woman in her late forties with calm eyes and a voice trained to deliver difficult truths—didn’t flinch at Daniel’s tone. She had seen this reaction before. Parents who came in convinced they were doing the right thing, only to realize that the law didn’t move on emotion.
“I’ll explain it again,” she said gently, folding her hands on the table. “The recording
