I walked past the reception desk and reached into the bassinet.

My hands were shaking so hard I could barely lift my son.

I pulled Owen close to my chest, breathing in his sweet baby scent of lotion and warm wool.

He stirred, letting out a tiny, soft sigh against my collarbone.

“He’s safe, Hannah,” my father said softly, placing his large, warm hand on my shoulder.

“They almost took him,” I whispered, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes.

“They didn’t,” my father said. “And they never will again. Let’s go finish this.”

We walked back up the stairs, my father keeping his hand on my back the entire way.

When we re-entered the courtroom, the atmosphere was thick with tension.

Patricia was arguing in whispers with her lawyer, her fingers tapping furiously on the wooden table.

Courtney was staring at the ceiling, her eyes red and puffy.

Ethan looked up as we walked in.

His eyes locked onto Owen, who was now wrapped securely in my arms.

Ethan’s face fell, the last bit of hope draining from his expression.

He knew the transport plan had failed.