She had been sentimental about survival.
And now, four months later, my abuser was about to hold that sacrifice up to a judge and call it proof that I was unfit.
Chapter 4 — Unfit
Dunmore turned the photograph so the bench could see it.
It was Rory, blown up large and sharp — leaving the schoolyard the week before, his blue shirt marked with dark, irregular stains, his shoulders sagging with a tiredness no eight-year-old should wear.
“Your Honor, this image needs no explanation,” Dunmore said, and his voice had the practiced disgust of a man who has learned to perform outrage on cue.
“This child is sent out day after day in filthy clothes.
The mother cannot hold a job, cannot keep a home, cannot manage the most basic care of a minor.
She is a danger to this boy’s wellbeing, plain and simple.”
Beside me, Rory went very small.