Chapter 17 - THE NIGHT BEFORE TRIAL
Mom slept at my house for the first time since moving out.
Her choice.
She said:
“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Emma and Oliver were three.
They climbed into her bed at seven.
By eight, all three asleep.
I stood in doorway.
The image was close to the opening scene:
Mom with my children.
Except no pot.
No apron.
No bruises.
No command.
Choice.
I went downstairs.
Nathan called.
“You nervous?”
“Yes.”
“You ready?”
“No.”
“Same thing.”
Maybe.
Then my attorney reminded:
Do not volunteer.
Do not argue.
Do not call Ryan thief unless asked about conviction? No conviction yet.
Describe.
Do not speculate.
If you don't know, say don't know.
Mom’s attorney gave same.
Then Mom asked before bed:
“If jury says he didn’t steal, does that mean I imagined?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“If jury acquits neglect, does that mean kids were fine?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She understood burdens better than most commentators.
Then:
“If he’s convicted, does that mean I have to stop loving him?”
“No.”
She cried.
There.
The real trial.
Not legal.
Mothers do not receive a switch.
Then I admitted:
“I still love him too.”
Mom looked surprised.
“He’s your brother.”
“I know.”
“You can hate what he did.”
“I do.”
“You can miss who he was before.”
“Yes.”
Maybe the most honest thing.
Then she said:
“He was good when your father was sick.”
True.
Ryan drove Dad to chemotherapy.
Sat nights.
Handled insurance.
He had been useful before usefulness became power.
Again, caregiving is not proof of character forever.
Then we talked Dad.
Not case.
Normal.
At midnight, I checked children.
Emma had moved sideways.
Oliver had foot on Mom’s stomach.
Mom snored.
Good.
I slept.
Morning:
Court.
No children.
Kimberly watched them.
Nathan joined after flight? Could attend some.
Mom wore blouse and trousers.
No apron.
I wore plain navy dress.
Ryan wore suit.
He looked at Mom.
She looked back.
No smile.
No hatred.
May you like
Judge entered.
The story left family and became evidence.
