The morning of the meeting arrived with a chill that pierced through layers of clothing, settling into my bones.
We drove to the agency in silence, the car filled with the sound of tires on wet pavement and the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers.
My wife sat beside me, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.
As we parked, I took a deep breath, trying to steady the tremor I felt inside.
“We’ll get through this,” I said, but the words felt more like a question than a statement.
She nodded, a small gesture of agreement or perhaps just resignation.
Inside, the hallway was lined with doors that all looked the same, each leading to rooms where decisions were made about lives that didn’t belong to them.
We were shown into a room, the walls a sterile white, the table filled with papers that bore our daughter’s name.
The caseworker greeted us with a smile that felt as professional as the setting, but not unfriendly.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, gesturing for us to sit.
