“I need to—”
“Don't move.”
The attorney’s voice was barely audible.
“Everything you do is being watched.”
The father stared at his daughter.
The mother stepped away from her table.
“Come here right now.”
The little girl finally spoke.
“No.”
One word.
Tiny.
But the courtroom heard it.
The mother stopped.
Her face changed.
Only for a fraction of a second.
The father saw it.
So did nobody else.
The mother immediately softened her expression.
“Sweetheart, this isn't the place.”
The little girl’s chin trembled.
“I need Daddy.”
Several people in the gallery shifted.
The father closed his eyes.
It hurt hearing that word.
Daddy.
For six months, he had heard it mostly through supervised video calls.
Twenty minutes on Tuesdays.
Thirty minutes on Saturdays.
Never alone.
Never without somebody monitoring.
He had gone from reading bedtime stories every night to asking a screen whether she had brushed her teeth.
His daughter had adapted the way children adapt when adults rearrange their lives and call it necessary.
She showed him drawings.
She introduced stuffed animals.
She sometimes whispered that she missed their pancakes.
He always said the same thing.
“I miss them too.”
What he never said was:
I miss your socks under my couch.
I miss telling you to stop jumping on the bed.
I miss finding crayons in places crayons should not exist.
I miss complaining about cartoons and then watching them after you fall asleep because the house is too quiet.
I miss being your father without permission.
The mother took another step.
The little girl backed away.
The father’s heart stopped.
That movement mattered.
The judge noticed.
“Ma’am.”
The mother stopped.
The judge looked toward the child advocate.
“Please accompany the child outside.”
The advocate approached gently.
The little girl turned toward her.
Then suddenly looked at the father again.
“Wait.”
The judge leaned back.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
The little girl did not answer the judge.
She began walking.
Straight toward the defense table.
The mother’s face went pale.
“Stop.”
The little girl continued.
“Emily—”
The judge interrupted sharply.
“Do not approach her.”
The mother froze.
Everyone watched the little girl cross the courtroom.
Small white shoes.
Butter-yellow dress.
Tears rolling down her cheeks.
The father’s entire body tensed against the instinct to stand.
He wanted to go to her.
He wanted to pick her up.
He wanted to tell every deputy, lawyer, judge, and stranger in that room to disappear.
Instead, he remained seated.
His daughter reached him.
One deputy looked toward the judge.
The judge nodded.
The child could approach.
The little girl stood between her father’s knees.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she whispered:
“Daddy.”
His voice broke immediately.
“Hey, baby.”
She looked at the cuffs.
Her expression crumpled.