The hearing ended without a final decision.
Judge Wynn wanted the remaining submissions reviewed before proceeding.
I understood.
The documents were important.
The claims were serious.
And nobody should make a decision about an estate without examining the evidence properly.
I gathered my three binders.
The first one contained the police report.
The second contained the insurance records.
The third contained the adoption documents and the supporting estate papers.
I placed them carefully into my briefcase.
My parents were already heading toward the exit.
My mother walked behind my father.
Wyatt followed them.
Their attorney remained near the table, speaking quietly with the clerk.
I watched them leave.
Twenty-two years ago, I had watched two people disappear through the doors of a bus station.
Now I was watching them leave a courthouse.
The difference was that I no longer needed them to come back.
I stepped into the hallway.
Their attorney approached me.
"Mr. Marsh, do you have a moment?"
I stopped.
"What's this about?"
He looked toward the courtroom.
"I'd prefer to discuss the matter without an audience."
I didn't move closer.
"If it's about the case, you can address it through the proper process."
He nodded.
"I understand. I simply want you to know that my clients believe there are circumstances you may not fully appreciate."
I looked at him.
"What circumstances?"
He hesitated.
"They feel they lost their son too."
I almost answered immediately.
Then I stopped myself.
I had spent enough time arguing with people who used emotional language to avoid specific questions.
"Did they ever try to find me?"
He looked uncomfortable.
"I can't speak to every decision they made."
"Then what can you tell me?"
He adjusted the folder under his arm.
"That they believe the matter should be resolved fairly."
I nodded.
"Then I hope the documents are reviewed fairly."
I walked away.
I wasn't interested in another conversation that went nowhere.
Outside the courthouse, the afternoon air felt colder than it had earlier.
I stood near the entrance for a moment.
Cars moved along the street.
People crossed the sidewalk carrying bags.
Life continued.
I checked my briefcase.
The zipper was closed.
The binders were secure.
Then I drove home.
That evening, I placed the documents on my dining table.
I didn't open them.
I had looked at them enough for one day.
Instead, I made tea and sat in the living room.
Elijah's old books were still on the shelves.
I had kept many of them after his death.
One had a small folded paper tucked between its pages.
It was a note he had used as a bookmark.
There was nothing important written on it.
Just a few words reminding him to pick up bread.
I held it for a while.
I thought about the man who had once sat beside me in a waiting room.
He hadn't known what my future would become.
He hadn't known about law school.
He hadn't known about the inheritance.
He had simply seen a little boy who needed someone to stay.
I put the note back inside the book.
Then I went to bed.
The following days were filled with ordinary work.
I answered professional emails.
I reviewed cases.
I attended appointments.
I tried to keep my mind away from the lawsuit.
But the case was still there.
The courthouse had not finished with it.
Neither had I.
When the next communication arrived, I read it carefully.
There were additional procedural matters to address.
Nothing changed the documents already submitted.
I prepared my response.
I didn't rush.
I had learned that patience was sometimes the strongest thing a person could bring into a courtroom.
Click here to continue reading: PART 18: I Returned to Elijah’s House and Found Myself Remembering the Small Things That Had Made Him More of a Father Than Anyone Else
The Little Boy Who Believed His Parents Would Return, Even After Everyone Else Had Stopped Waiting
Part 17 of 24
