I remember everything.
Every word.
Every face.
Every sound.
People say time slows down when something traumatic happens. For me, it did.
The courtroom smelled like mothballs and emptiness. That's the only way I know how to describe it.
When the verdict was read, I felt the coldness of the handcuffs around my wrists.
I looked over at my dad. He was already in handcuffs too. I watched him lean over and whisper something into my mom's ear.
I never heard what he said.
I never asked.
That moment was theirs.
I was numb.
Not because I didn't understand what was happening.
Because I understood exactly what was happening.
Everything I had worked for…
Everything I thought my future would be…
It was gone.
The courtroom didn't stop.
The deputies kept talking.
People gathered their papers.
Chairs slid across the floor.
Everyone else kept moving.
My world didn't.
I looked at my sister.
“Please take care of my child.”
She looked back at me without hesitation.
“Of course.”
Those are the last words I remember hearing before they led me away.
All I could think about was my daughter.
Who was going to hold her when she cried?
Who was going to tell her everything was going to be okay?
How do you explain to your child that her mom is leaving in handcuffs?
You don't.
You just leave.
The sound of those handcuffs closing is something I'll never forget.
Neither is the smell of that courtroom.
Neither is watching my parents in one of the worst moments of their lives.
People think prison begins when you arrive at the prison.
Mine didn't.
Mine began in that courtroom.
It began with the smell of mothballs.
The cold steel around my wrists.
My father's whisper.
My sister's promise.
And one thought that drowned out everything else.
My child.
That moment changed my life forever.