My mother stood before the judge with both hands pressed against the table.

“Ariana stays with me,” she said. “I’m her mother.”

I stared at a scratch in the dark wood. I had been in the courtroom for less than ten minutes, and already I wanted to disappear beneath the table.

Dad stood behind my chair. He had told me I could look at him if I got scared. I was scared, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn around.

Mom had watched me all morning. She had straightened my cardigan in the hallway and smoothed my braids, though I had done them myself.

“Remember,” she whispered, “we’re a team.”

I loved her. I loved Dad too. That was the part she never seemed to hear.

The judge spoke before Mom could say anything else.

“Ariana, I need to ask you a question.”

I lifted my head.

“Where do you want to live?”

Mom turned toward me immediately. Her face softened into the look she gave me whenever she expected me to agree with her.

Dad stayed quiet.

I swallowed. We had practiced questions with the counselor, but the room felt different from her office. There were folders on the tables, people waiting for my answer, and Mom’s eyes fixed on me.

“I don’t want to hurt anybody,” I said.

The judge leaned forward. “I understand. Take your time.”

Mom shook her head gently, as if I had misunderstood something.

“Baby, you won’t hurt me. Just tell the truth.”

I had tried to tell the truth at home.

Two weeks earlier, I told Mom I wanted to spend more nights at Dad’s apartment. She cried through dinner. The next morning, she said she had stayed awake wondering why I didn’t love her anymore.

When I tried to explain, she said I was too young to understand how much she had given up.

I was ten. I understood that she was sad.

I also understood that I had stopped telling her when I was sad, because somehow I always ended up comforting her.

My fingers trembled against my knees.

“Mom,” I whispered, “please don’t make me feel guilty.”

Her mouth opened, then closed.

“Ariana,” she said, “I’ve done everything for you.”

“I know.”

My eyes filled. I wiped one cheek quickly.

“I know you love me. But when I tell Dad how I feel, he lets me finish.”

Dad made a small sound behind me. I turned. His eyes were wet, but he didn’t move toward me.

The judge asked, “Are you saying you want to live with your father?”

I looked at Mom.

She was gripping the edge of the table. She had chosen the burgundy blouse I liked best because she said it made her feel brave.

I didn’t feel brave. I felt as if the floor might give way beneath my feet.

“I love you, Mom,” I said. “I want to live with Dad.”

Mom went still.

Dad crouched beside my chair, keeping a little space between us. He waited until I reached for his hand. Then he held it carefully, as though I might change my mind.

Mom stared at our hands.

“She doesn’t know what she’s asking for,” she said.

The judge’s voice was calm.

“I’m listening to your daughter.”

No one spoke for several seconds. I could hear a clock somewhere behind me.

Then the judge told the adults she needed more information before deciding where I would live permanently. There was already a temporary schedule. She would review it, hear from the counselor who had met with us, and decide what should happen next.

I understood only part of that. I knew my answer had not changed everything at once.

Mom sat down. She didn’t look at me again until we left the courtroom.

In the hallway, her lawyer spoke softly to her while Dad waited with me near a bench. I wanted to go to Mom. I also wanted her to come to me without asking me to take back what I had said.

She finally walked over.

“Are you proud of what you did?” she asked.

The words were quiet. They hurt anyway.

Dad straightened. “Nia.”

Mom’s eyes filled. “I asked my daughter a question.”

I looked at the floor.

“I told the truth,” I said.

For a moment, she seemed about to say something else. Her lawyer touched her arm and asked her to step away.

Dad led me outside.

It had rained that morning. The pavement was still wet, and the air felt cool on my face. I hadn’t realized how hard I had been trying not to cry.

Dad opened the car door, but I didn’t get in.

“Did I do something bad?”