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

At Dad’s apartment, I put my court shoes beside the front door and went straight to my room.

He had painted one wall pale yellow because I told him it looked like morning, even when it rained. My books were on the shelf. My school photograph stood beside a little clay bowl I made in art class.

It felt like my room.

I sat on the bed and waited for that to make me feel better.

Dad knocked.

“Can I come in?”

I nodded.

He held up two mugs. Mine had hot chocolate.

“Extra marshmallows,” he said.

I took it, but I didn’t drink.

“Will Mom call?”

“I think so. The temporary schedule says you’re with me through Monday. You can talk to her whenever you want.”

“What if she doesn’t want to talk to me?”

Dad sat in the chair by my desk.

“She loves you. She may need time to calm down.”

I watched a marshmallow sink beneath the chocolate.

“When she said she was my mother, I felt like I wasn’t allowed to answer.”

“You were allowed.”

“I wish she hadn’t looked so sad.”

“I know.”

He didn’t tell me to stop thinking about it. He stayed until I wanted to talk about something else.

That night, Mom called while I was brushing my teeth. Her name filled the screen, and my stomach tightened.

Dad saw me looking at it.

“You can answer here, or I can give you privacy.”

“I want you close.”

He sat outside my open bedroom door while I picked up.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, baby.” Her voice sounded tired. “Did you eat dinner?”

“Yes. Dad made pasta.”

“Oh.”

I waited.

“I’m sorry about what I said in the hallway,” she told me. “I was upset.”

“Okay.”

“I love you more than anything.”

“I love you too.”

She took a breath.

“I just don’t understand why you said those things in front of strangers instead of telling me.”

“I did tell you.”

There was a pause.

“You said you wanted more time with your father. You never said I made you feel guilty.”

“I tried to.”

“Ariana, I would never want you to feel that way.”

I stared at my blanket. She was denying the feeling while telling me she cared about it.

“I need to go to sleep soon,” I said.

Her voice changed. “Are you hanging up because he’s there?”

“No. I’m tired.”

Dad looked down at his hands. He had heard that.

“I’ll call tomorrow,” Mom said.

“Good night.”

After I ended the call, I cried. Dad sat on the floor beside my bed until I fell asleep.

The next morning, I went to school. I wanted one day when nobody asked me which parent I had chosen.

My best friend, Maya, knew about the hearing. She met me at my locker and handed me a bracelet she had made from blue and green thread.

“It’s for luck,” she said.

“Court was yesterday.”

“Then it’s for today.”

I tied it around my wrist.

At lunch, a boy at the next table asked why my dad had picked me up instead of my mom. Maya told him to mind his sandwich. I nearly laughed.

My teacher, Ms. Parker, asked me to stay for a minute after class. The judge had requested school records as part of the case, and Ms. Parker wanted me to know that the school would share attendance and grades, not gossip.

“Are you doing all right?” she asked.

“I think so.”

“If you need a quiet place at lunch, you can come to the library.”

I thanked her. I didn’t use the library that day, but knowing it was there helped.

When Dad picked me up, he told me Mom’s lawyer had asked for another meeting. Adults were going to discuss the schedule.

“Do I have to go back to court tomorrow?”

“No. Not tomorrow.”

I exhaled.

We stopped at the grocery store. Dad let me choose dinner. I picked soup because it was easy, then felt bad because he had bought ingredients for chicken.

“We can make the chicken another day,” he said.

He always said things like that. A changed plan could just be a changed plan.

At home, I did my homework at the kitchen table while he cooked. My phone buzzed. Mom had sent a photograph from when I was six, asleep against her shoulder on a bus.

Remember how we went everywhere together? she wrote.

I loved the picture. I didn’t know how to answer it.

A second message came.

I hope you remember who was there from the beginning.

My chest grew tight.

I showed Dad. He read both messages and gave the phone back.

“You can tell her you love the picture,” he said. “You don’t have to answer the other part tonight.”

“Will she be angry?”

“She might feel hurt. You still get to choose your words.”

I wrote, I remember that day. I love you, Mom.

She sent a heart.

I put down the phone. Dad set soup in front of me, and we ate while talking about Maya’s bracelet. For a little while, the court felt far away.