We met our attorney, Mr. Harrison, in the lobby of the Richmond Juvenile and Domestic Relations District Court.

Mr. Harrison was a quiet, gray-haired man who had helped me finalize Caroline’s adoption years ago.

“We have a strong position,” he said, taking one of the black binders from Caroline. “But judges can be unpredictable when biological parents claim they’ve reformed.”

“Thomas hasn’t reformed,” I said. “He’s just broke and desperate.”

We entered the courtroom on the third floor.

The room smelled of floor wax and old paper.

Thomas was already sitting at the table on the right side of the room.

He wore a dark blue suit that looked brand new, his hair neatly combed, a leather briefcase sitting on the table in front of him.

Beside him sat a younger lawyer in a sharp grey suit who was looking through a tablet.

When we walked in, Thomas stood up and offered a warm, sad smile.

“Caroline,” he said, stepping toward the gallery railing. “Thank you for coming.”

Caroline did not look at him; she walked past his table and took her seat next to Mr. Harrison.