I've been in chemotherapy for 4 months now. The courtroom seemed to grow even quieter, something Henry had not believed was physically possible. He sat there, a senior judge on the floor of his own court, his hands shaking so violently that he had to use both palms to hold the phone against his ear. When were you going to tell me? He managed to ask, his throat tightening.
When you understood what was more important, she responded simply. The phrase struck him like a physical blow to the chest. It was the exact same thing she had told him 2 years ago in his chambers, but now it carried the immense crushing weight of a life-and-death struggle. Mia stood right next to her grandfather, watching him with a strange, silent empathy. Children have a profound way of perceiving when the adults around them are completely breaking down, even if they do not understand the mechanics of the rupture.
She reached out and touched the sleeve of his black robe, her small fingers tracing the thick, heavy fabric. "Grandpa?" she said softly, her blue eyes wide. He looked at her, his vision completely blurred by tears he had not shed in decades. "Can you tell Mom to come home?" In that exact moment, Judge Henry Miller made a decision that would probably be the talk of the Georgia legal community for the next 10 years. He looked up at Benjamin and told him to suspend the hearing indefinitely.
He told Claude Foster and the other attorneys to wait in a separate conference room with their clients, leaving no room for argument. He requested that everyone else clear the room immediately. When the heavy wooden doors finally clicked shut and the room was completely empty except for him, Mia, and Elizabeth, Henry remained on his knees. He opened his arms wide and after a moment of careful, silent evaluation, Mia stepped into them. She smelled of strawberry shampoo and the faint scent of crayons.