That morning had started like any other court day in this nightmare. I’d woken up at 5 a.m., too anxious to sleep. I made breakfast for Hazel (6) and my son, Timothy (8), though my stomach was in knots. I braided Hazel’s hair with the purple ribbon she said made her feel “brave.” Timothy wore his little suit, the one from my mother’s funeral, and was so quiet I could barely get him to speak.