“The court has ruled. You can still file a proper custody petition, Mr Kennedy.”
Which this court will never accept.
These are the words that the judge doesn’t say but that both the opposing lawyers and I know.
The judge stands up, determined to leave the courtroom and let these children be taken away from the only family they have left. From the man who loves them more than anything and would do anything for them.
And I just can’t see it happening again.
I don’t know where it comes from, but I know it’s fast and strong, something that comes from deep inside, from the most hidden part of me, the part that no one has the right to see. Yet it exists, has returned to speak to me, and is insistent and loud, so loud that it covers everything else.
I only hear my voice crying, “Your Honour, please!”
And then everything stops.
I look back at the children who have been entrusted to social services, and then the words in my stomach rise to my throat to turn into a naïve and senseless mistake.
“Can I come closer? This is important. Really important.”
The judge motions for me to join him. I approach him in the heavy silence of the room. I adjust my tie, which seems to have become a tight, scratchy noose, and then clear my throat. I address the judge, ignoring the gaze of the opposing lawyer who has now approached.
“I’m worried it might seem unprofessional,” I push aside a lingering fear from the past and keep talking. “But there are circumstances of which the court has not been made aware.”
“What circumstances are we talking about?” The judge asks, his brow furrowed.
“Yes, Kennedy. What the hell are you talking about?” The opposing lawyer asks.
“There are guarantees that my client can make to this court. I believe guarantees are more than sufficient to keep the children from leaving their home.”
“What guarantees are we exactly talking about?”
“My client is…” It’s now or never. I take a deep breath. “My partner.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“I’m the guarantee.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My client and I are… together,” I say so quietly that I’m not sure they heard me.
“Could you repeat that?”
God, what am I doing?
“We are a couple.”
“You’re a couple?” The lawyer raises his voice, causing a few whispers in the room.
I look again at Seth, who has no idea what’s going on, and then at the kids, who are waiting for me to give them hope or, worse, the miracle they have been waiting for.
I can’t be their miracle, but I can buy them time.
Something I didn’t have.
“Mr Graham and I are engaged,” I raise my voice a little this time, which elicits more than a whisper in the room.
“And this is official?”
