IT’S RAINING.

Not an auspicious beginning, I think. I shuffle my index cards on the table, trying to look more skilled than Iactually am. Who was I kidding? I am no lawyer, no professional. I have been nothing more than a mother,and I have not even done a very square job of that.

“Mrs. Fitzgerald?” the judge prompts.

I take a deep breath, stare down at the gibberish in front of me, and grab the whole sheaf of index cards.

Standing up, I clear my throat, and start to read aloud. “In this country we have a long legal history ofallowing parents to make decisions for their children. It’s part of what the courts have always found to be theconstitutional right to privacy. And given all the evidence this court has heard—” Suddenly, there is a crashof lightning, and I drop all my notes onto the floor. Kneeling, I scramble to pick them up, but of course nowthey are out of order. I try to rearrange what I have in front of me, but nothing makes sense.

Oh, hell. It’s not what I need to say, anyway.

“Your Honor,” I ask, “can I start over?” When he nods, I turn my back on him, and walk toward my daughter,who is sitting beside Campbell.

“Anna,” I tell her, “I love you. I loved you before I ever saw you, and I will love you long after I’m not hereto say it. And I know that because I’m a parent, I’m supposed to have all the answers, but I don’t. I wonderevery single day if I’m doing the right thing. I wonder if I know my children the way I think I do. I wonder ifI lose my perspective in being your mother, because I’m so busy being Kate’s.”

I take a few steps forward. “I know I jump at every sliver of possibility that might cure Kate, but it’s all Iknow how to do. And even if you don’t agree with me, even if Kate doesn’t agree with me, I want to be theone who says I told you so. Ten years from now, I want to see your children on your lap and in your arms,because that’s when you’ll understand. I have a sister, so I know—that relationship, it’s all about fairness:

you want your sibling to have exactly what you have—the same amount of toys, the same number ofmeatballs on your spaghetti, the same share of love. But being a mother is completely different. You wantyour child to have more than you ever did. You want to build a fire underneath her and watch her soar. It’sbigger than words.” I touch my chest. “And it still all manages to fit very neatly inside here.”

I turn to Judge DeSalvo. ............