It was a cold winter morning in Washington, D.C., the kind where the air felt sharp enough to slice through certainty. I stood in the waiting room of the federal courthouse, the weight of my new judge’s robe settling across my shoulders like a promise I had chased for half a lifetime. My breath fogged in the glass, steady but tight, as I tried to believe this was real: I was about to become a judge of the United States District Court.
Just as I studied my own reflection, my phone buzzed.
A message from my mother lit the screen.
Sweetheart, we won’t make it to your proclamation today. The girls booked us a spa day. You understand, right?
