I hadn’t seen my mom in two years. I’d missed two Christmases, two Halloween parties, two Thanksgivings, and her fortieth birthday. She missed my sweet sixteen to make up for it. Now, on some random day in September I’d be face to face with her again. 

I sat in the waiting room with my dad, fiddling with the paper I’d anxiously scribbled on. My leg bounced up and down with each passing second. The last two days had been a blur. I was told about the process of testifying in a cramped room with two ladies I didn’t even know. I’d have to stand in front of the courtroom, see her face to face again. My brother and I were supposed to tell our story and answer questions from my mother’s lawyer. That all changed the day before the court hearing; I guess she didn’t want to have to see her children again. She took a last second plea deal in a desperate attempt to keep us out of the courtroom. I remember hearing that from my dad, and I couldn’t wrap my head around her decision. Was she trying to save me and my brother the process of being questioned? Was she scared to see us? Did she want us out of her life forever? It didn't matter, she would never be able to answer my question if things went our way in the courtroom. 

I was faced with a choice. While testifying was out of the question, I was given the choice to give an impact statement. My brother was too young to give one. He wasn’t even twelve. If I were to give a statement, I’d be speaking for the both of us. I’d stand in front of a room full of strangers and tell them how my own mother used her hands to ruin our childhoods, how her words and touches over the sixteen years forced me to grow up.  Or, I could have the peace of not having to see my mother in a courtroom. I’d chosen to get closure, to tell her how much I hate what she’d done to us.

I remember getting called out of the waiting room. My stomach sank with each step to the courtroom. All throughout my life I’d been in and out of courthouses, answering the same questions over and over. This time, I’d take part in a real hearing. My dad was there with me, hand in hand. I knew I had one goal. I wanted to make her know how much I hated the things she did. I told myself I wouldn’t give her closure. I’d let her know her little baby hated her guts. When the courtroom door swung open, my mother looked over at us, and I caught her eyes for a moment. She had started to cry.

All the anxiety, the fear, and the years of loathing came crashing down at once. My mother was a monster, one who didn’t care about her children in a healthy way, but as I stood there watching a woman I once loved cry, I saw my mom. The same woman who used to cuddle me when I was sad, who always took my side. A shaky breath rattled through my throat as I tried to hold back the tears threatening to spill. My dad sat me down in our pew, against the wall and as far away from her as possible. 

The Judge read from her papers, spelling out each account and charge she had. My eyes were stuck looking at the wooden floor. The judge began to read the plea deal, asking if she agreed with the conditions each step of the way. I didn’t have to look over to hear her crying. When she leaned closer to the microphone to speak, every word was strained and shaky. I don’t know what brought me to look at her, but I did. She looked horrible. She’d lost weight, her hair wasn’t the vibrant red she always dyed it, and her skin looked pale, the only color being the splotchy red around her nose and eyes from crying. 

After the plea was read, it was my turn to speak. I walked over to the podium in the middle of the room. My back was facing my mother this way, and while I couldn’t see her, I know she wouldn’t dare look at me. Each word that came from me was just as strained as my mother’s responses. I choked back each cry that threatened to escape as I read through my bullet points. I stopped myself before I could truly say everything I wanted to. The tears were getting impossible to stop as I relived every moment I read out. I thanked the judge before shuffling back to my seat.

My dad took my hand, squeezing it tightly. “I’m proud of you,” he whispered. I didn’t feel proud. I didn’t know how to feel. My mind was racing with each passing moment. I could barely focus on the closing statement from the Judge. I know things went our way. She was found guilty on conditions of her plea deal, and I would have another year of no contact. While we had won the case, there was nothing but sorrow behind the verdict. I’d truly lost my mother. Even if she was still sitting only 15 feet away from me, her heart beating and still breathing, my mom was dead to me.