The courtroom felt different that morning—too still, too quiet, like everyone inside was holding their breath without realizing it. Even the scrape of a chair sounded sharp, cutting through the tension. Custody hearings were never gentle, but that day carried a thicker heaviness, the kind that settles on your shoulders and refuses to let go.
My ex stood beside his attorney, chin lifted, certainty radiating off him. He kept insisting that our eight-year-old son wanted to live with him, saying it with a confidence that made it sound predetermined, as if the truth had already been decided. The judge listened, expression unreadable, then turned his gaze to Zaden.
My son—my sweet, serious, thoughtful boy—sat on the bench with his small legs dangling and his hands folded too neatly in his lap. He was trying to hold himself like an adult, but everything about him reminded me that he was still just a child navigating something far too heavy for his age. Still, he lifted his chin just a little when the judge asked if he wanted to say anything.
That’s when he made the request that shifted everything.
“Can I play something?” he asked quietly. Not defiant, not scared—just steady.
The judge paused, studying him carefully, then nodded. “Yes, Zaden. You may.”
My ex straightened, confident that whatever Zaden had recorded would back him up. He shot me a look that suggested victory was already in his hands. But I was watching Zaden—not him. And what I saw wasn’t anger. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t a child trying to pick a side.
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