Lily turned another page.
This one contained a handwritten schedule.
Breakfast.
School drop-off.
Medication reminder.
Homework.
Dinner.
Reading.
Bedtime.
Beside each task, she had written a name.
Dad.
Dad.
Dad.
Dad.
Dad.
“Did your father tell you to make this?” the judge asked.
“No.
The psychologist asked me what a normal week looked like.
I wrote it down before our appointment so I wouldn’t forget anything.”
“Do you help your father with his medication?”
“I remind him sometimes, like he reminds me to pack my gym shoes.
But he takes care of his own medicine.
He cooks.
He drives when his doctor says he can.
When he is tired, our neighbor brings groceries or our attorney’s office arranges a car.”
“Do you feel responsible for keeping him safe?”
Lily thought before answering.
“I worry about him because I love him.
He worries about me because he loves me.
But he never makes me be the grown-up.”
The psychologist lowered her eyes, hiding emotion.
Judge Martinez asked, “What happened when your mother returned?”
Lily looked at the next section of the folder.
“She came to our apartment after Dad told Uncle Richard about the diagnosis.”
Richard’s posture changed.
His attorney whispered something, but Richard waved him away.
“How long after the diagnosis?” the judge asked.
“Four days.”
“Had you heard from her recently before that?”
“No.”
“What did she say when she arrived?”
Lily swallowed.
“She hugged me for a long time because there were photographers outside.
Then, when we went upstairs, she asked Dad how much of the company he still owned.”
A reporter’s pen scratched rapidly across paper.
My mother’s attorney stood again.
“Objection.
The child is repeating an adult financial conversation she could not possibly understand.”
Judge Martinez looked at Lily.
“Do you know exactly what was said?”
“Yes.
I wrote it down that night.”
She removed a lined sheet from the folder.
The handwriting was less controlled than on the newer pages.
Some letters leaned backward.
A word had been erased and rewritten.
