PART 2
I held my daughter in the front seat of my car and let her cry.
“Sky,” I said, “you don’t have to sign anything. Not ever. And Grandma can’t make the judge believe something that isn’t true.” “How do you know?”
I reached into my pocket and put my ninety-day coin in her hand.
“Because now I have proof,” I said. “Every week. In writing.”
My lawyer filed an emergency motion that afternoon.
I brought everything to the hearing. My discharge papers. My counselor’s letter. Twelve weeks of clean drug tests, every one observed and documented. And a fresh test from that morning.
Clean.
Then my lawyer showed the judge the photos. Skylar’s bare, red feet in the snow. The time stamp. The temperature.
Marjorie’s lawyer tried to say I was “unstable” and “still a risk.”
Then the judge asked Skylar’s school for her attendance and nurse’s records.
The school nurse had written seven notes since September.
“Student arrived with cold injuries to toes.”
“Student arrived without coat. Temperature 21°F.”
“Student says she waits outside every morning because grandmother locks the door.”
The nurse had called Marjorie three times. Marjorie never called back.
Then the judge asked about the adoption.
Marjorie had filed for it two weeks earlier. In the petition, she’d written that I had “abandoned treatment” and “relapsed.”
I’d been sitting in a rehab center the whole time. They had my sign-in sheets for every single day.
Marjorie’s own text messages to a friend came out last.
“Once the adoption goes through, the state kinship payment doubles. And Carla can’t ever take her back.”
The judge was quiet for a long time.
Then she looked at me.
“Ms. Dupree, you did everything this court asked of you. Every test. Every day.”
She returned custody to me that afternoon.
The adoption petition was denied. Marjorie was investigated for neglect and for lying in a court filing. She lost the guardianship payments she’d collected while Skylar was standing in the snow. She’s only allowed to see Skylar now if Skylar wants to.
Skylar hasn’t wanted to.
The first thing we did after court was go to the mall.
Skylar picked out winter boots. Purple ones. And a puffy coat that’s way too big for her because she says she’ll grow into it.
She wears them every day.
I’m almost a year sober now. I work at a bakery. I go to meetings three times a week. Skylar comes to my coin ceremonies.
At the last one, when they called my name, she stood up on her chair and clapped so loud the whole room laughed.
On the drive home, she held up my new coin.
“You know what I like best?” she said.
“What?”
“You waited outside for me first.”
THE END.
