Marshaling proof of my own adequacy.

Trying to remember whether I’d ever raised my voice, ever been too tired, ever done any of the ordinary imperfect things that a hostile person could photograph and hold up as evidence.

It is a particular cruelty, to make a good mother audition for the right to keep her children.

Bruce found me at the kitchen table at two in the morning with a legal pad, writing down every doctor’s appointment I had ever kept for the girls, as though a list could shield them.

He didn’t tell me to go to bed. He sat down across from me and helped me finish the list.

Chapter 6 — The Smear

She went on the evening news that night. I watched it from Bruce’s kitchen, my hand over my mouth.