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The courtroom carried a strange, almost reverent stillness that morning, as if everyone present sensed that something meaningful was about to happen. Even the usual shuffling of papers and low murmurs felt subdued. My ex-husband stood beside his attorney with visible confidence, his posture relaxed, his expression assured. He spoke firmly when it was his turn, telling the judge that our eight-year-old son wanted to live with him, presenting the claim as settled truth rather than opinion. From where I sat, I could see our child alone on a wooden bench, his feet barely touching the floor, swinging back and forth in a slow, nervous rhythm. His hands were folded carefully in his lap, and although he tried to look calm, he seemed so small against the towering walls of the courtroom.
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