By Emma Margraf
I might have shown more empathy. I might have been contrite. Parents should fall on their swords for the sake of their children but that’s not what I did. I stared at the stained, varnished surface of the table in the courtroom, calmed by the pot candy I’d eaten on the drive to the courthouse that kicked in just as our case was called. Now my long time foster daughter Jane, the plaintiff, and I, the defendant, sat at identical varnished tables.
Jane’s girlfriend’s mother, a woman I hardly knew, was sitting next to Jane and whispering in her ear. My own mother hadn’t liked Bella’s mother since early on. At 19, Bella lived at home, and when she went out of town her mother called Jane to come over to their house anyway because she said she was lonely, and missed Jane. They had ice cream. My mother thought this was weird, but I shrugged it off. I didn’t want to judge.
My father is a sailor, and I grew up on boats. In our parts of the water you spent a lot of time submerged in fog. You can find yourself completely without sight, the fog so thick that you can only see a few feet in front of you. To get where you need to go you rely on GPS systems and foghorns. The foghorn is a required element of boat life; ships sound them on a regular basis to warn other vessels of their presence. Large ships are a huge danger to smaller boats in the fog; but when you hear the sound you know where to avoid going. They are loud, they are startling, but you should always expect them as possible. That was never easy for me. Even in deep fog, I was surprised to hear them. Continue Reading…