In court, my ex’s lawyer held up my son’s torn shirt, sneering, “She can’t even clothe him.” My heart sank as the judge frowned. But then, my 8-year-old stood up and said, “Judge, please look inside the collar.” When the judge unbuttoned it, his face turned pale, and he looked straight at my ex…

the shoulders, layered over a shapeless, somber black dress I reserved for funerals and bank loans.

I had no legal representation. I could not afford the staggering retainers required by the predators in this building.

My entire defense rested inside a frayed, yellowing manila folder clutched in my sweating hands. It bulged with crumpled school report continue reading …