“No, Your Honor,” she replied. “The vehicles are waiting downstairs.”
That answer changed the urgency of the room.
The separation wasn’t theoretical.
It wasn’t something that might happen the next day or the following week.
The cars were already there.
The children could walk out of the building together and then be divided before leaving the property.
Judge Miller reached for the placement order.
“Then no child leaves this building until I say otherwise.”
Carter felt the meaning of the sentence immediately, but he also understood what it did not mean.
The judge had not approved an adoption.
He had not promised Carter custody.
He had not declared that emotion could replace an assessment of whether one person could realistically care for five children.
He had simply stopped the clock.
For the first time that morning, the siblings were no longer minutes away from being driven in four different directions.
That pause mattered.
It also created a harder question.
Stopping something was not the same as proving there was a better alternative.
Judge Miller made that clear.
Compassion, he warned Carter, was not the same thing as preparation.
Carter didn’t argue.
He hadn’t come into court expecting anyone to ignore the obvious difficulties because his intentions were good.
He knew a converted workshop and five car seats did not automatically make him ready for five children.
He knew the court had responsibilities that went beyond responding to an emotional story.
So he answered the concern directly.
