Judge Wynn looked toward Arthur and Evelyn.
"I have one more area I want clarified."
Their attorney stood.
"Certainly, Your Honor."
She looked at my father.
"Did you maintain a relationship with Matthew after the adoption?"
My father shook his head.
"No."
The answer came quickly.
The judge asked another question.
"Did you provide financial support?"
"No."
"Did you attend any of his educational milestones?"
My father looked down.
"No."
She turned toward my mother.
"Mrs. Marsh, did you maintain contact with Matthew?"
My mother held the tissue in both hands.
"No."
"Did you attempt to establish contact after learning where he had been placed?"
She hesitated.
"I don't remember."
Judge Wynn waited.
My mother looked toward her attorney.
He leaned closer and whispered something.
Then my mother said nothing more.
The judge wrote another note.
I sat still.
There was something painful about hearing those answers.
Not because they surprised me.
Because they were so simple.
No.
No.
No.
I had spent years trying to understand the absence.
Now the absence was being described in a courtroom.
The judge asked whether the plaintiffs had any records showing that they had supported me after the adoption.
Their attorney said they had none to submit.
She asked whether they had evidence of visits, letters, or calls.
Again, he said they did not.
Then she looked at the legal documents.
The adoption decree.
The termination of parental rights.
The estate records.
I could see that she was comparing the claims with the paperwork.
My father leaned toward his attorney.
His mouth moved.
The attorney listened without turning around.
My mother stared at her hands.
Wyatt sat behind them.
He no longer looked amused.
I wondered whether he had finally begun to understand what the documents meant.
Or perhaps he was only worried about what would happen to the inheritance claim.
I couldn't know.
The judge asked the attorney whether he had any further evidence of a legal basis for the plaintiffs' request.
He stood.
He began discussing equitable considerations again.
He said that the court should not ignore the biological connection.
Judge Wynn listened.
Then she asked a direct question.
"Are you arguing that the plaintiffs retained parental rights after the adoption?"
The attorney paused.
"We are asking the court to consider their relationship to the defendant."
"That was not my question."
He looked at his papers.
"No, Your Honor."
The judge nodded.
I felt my shoulders loosen slightly.
I hadn't won anything yet.
But the legal issue was becoming clearer.
The attorney asked whether he could submit additional material after reviewing the documents.
Judge Wynn said that any request would need to follow the court's procedures.
I listened.
I didn't object to a fair review.
I wanted the matter decided properly.
I didn't want a victory based on someone being denied an opportunity to respond.
That wasn't why I had become a lawyer.
I had become one because children deserved fair treatment.
And I believed the same principle applied to everyone in that courtroom.
The judge looked toward me.
"Mr. Marsh, do you have anything further concerning the absence of contact?"
I stood.
"Only that the absence was not mutual, Your Honor."
She looked at me.
"I was eight years old when I was left at the station. I did not choose to disappear from their lives."
I paused.
"I was a child. They were the adults."
Nobody spoke.
I returned to my seat.
My father looked directly at me.
For a moment, I thought he might finally say something.
He didn't.
The judge closed the file.
I watched her place her pen beside it.
The same pen that had been moving across her notepad since the hearing began.
I looked at the three binders.
I had brought them because I wanted the truth documented.
The police report showed what my parents had told the authorities.
The insurance records showed what had happened afterward.
The adoption decree showed who had actually become my father.
And the estate papers showed whom Elijah had chosen.
I rested my hands on the table.
I was no longer the boy waiting for someone to come back.
I was a grown man who had come to court prepared to defend the life someone had given him.
Judge Wynn looked toward both sides.
She indicated that she would continue reviewing the submissions and address the remaining issues through the court's process.
I stood with everyone else.
My parents gathered their papers.
Wyatt followed them toward the aisle.
I stayed beside my table until the bailiff finished collecting the documents.
The three binders remained in front of me.
I touched the worn corner of the first one.
Then I closed it.
For once, I wasn't leaving a room wondering whether someone would return for me.
I knew exactly where I was going.
And I was going there on my own terms.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: My Parents Left the Courthouse Without Looking at Me, but Their Lawyer Had One More Argument He Wasn’t Ready to Abandon
The Little Boy Who Believed His Parents Would Return, Even After Everyone Else Had Stopped Waiting
Part 16 of 24
