Farther down the corridor, another child sat on a bench beside a caseworker, swinging his feet against the wood.
The social worker glanced up, caught my eye, and gave me the softest, saddest smile I had ever received.
It felt worse than being yelled at.
“Carter?”
I looked up.
A woman in her late 50s stood over me with a stack of forms tucked under one arm.
“I’m Margaret, one of the clerks here,” she said gently. “You have the 10 o’clock case?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you holding up all right?”
“I haven’t slept in three weeks,” I admitted. “So, honestly, no.”
Her eyes softened in a way that made me feel as though she already knew things about me that I had never told her.
“You brought all five children with you?”
“I couldn’t leave them anywhere,” I said. “They’ve already been left too many times.”
