I was back in court. The judge, I thought, seemed to have abnormally large glasses and flabby jowls. He was balding, and I could see several spots on the crown of his head.

I looked to the right. Another woman, maybe nineteen years old, stood across from me with a secondhand suit and lines etched on her face, uncharacteristic for her age.

The judge started to speak. His flabby jowls wobbled. “We are here today for the matter of legal custody of Alex Faulkner, son of Amanda Faulkner, who is present to gain custody of said son.”

Several more hours followed of legal jargon and flabby jowls (I can’t seem to get that out of my mind), but I couldn’t hear much. All I knew was this lady was here to take Alex-my Alex-away. She was the one who had left him on the playground, if she didn’t want him then, why take him now? She cried and sobbed and said her dad would’ve killed her, but all I heard was “He’s mine! He’s mine!”

No, Alex wasn’t. He was mine.