The room fell silent the moment I walked in. My father chuckled under his breath, a dry, rustling sound of dismissal. My mother shook her head, that familiar gesture that said I had once again embarrassed the whole family.
The judge froze, staring at the uniform I hadn’t worn in years. His hand trembled as he whispered, “My God… is that really her?”
Everyone turned and stared. Nobody said a word.
That was the first time in my life my parents ever went quiet because of me. Two days earlier, I’d been trimming the overgrown azaleas in my front yard when the envelope came. Cream-colored paper with a county seal I recognized from childhood:
