He had forgotten that before I was ever his mother, I spent my life standing in courtrooms, dismantling lies line by line.

I had taught him, when he was small, how to spot a forged signature: look for the hesitation, I told him, the place where the hand slows down because it is copying instead of remembering.

He had grown up and forged mine anyway, and forgotten that the woman whose name he was copying had written the book he learned it from.

People have asked me, in the months since, whether I would take it back — whether, if I could return to that courtroom, I would let the guardianship go through, spare my son the prison years, keep the peace.

They mean it kindly.

They do not understand what they are asking.