This was supposed to be The Children's Era; a beautiful garden of children. Not a breeding ground for unwanted and unprepared for weeds who know they’ll never be as loved or looked after as the flowers. At least that’s what Sanger's speech said and that speech had become law 10 years ago. Not everyone has what it takes to be a parent, and that right is now solely determined by the Jury of the Unborn. Today their eyes move no more than a haunted portraits’ as you enter the courtroom, their expressions as blank as the parenthood permit application in your hands.
“Is this your [[first]] or [[second]] time applying for a child?” The judge barks at you.
“It’s my first time,” you answer, straightening the hemline of your skirt and smiling forcefully.
In these types of cases, a person must always represent herself. For it takes more than facts and statistics to tell if a person deserves a baby; it takes poise, presentation and maternal instinct that only manifests when a woman is truly ready. The prosecutor is allowed to use any and all tactics to weigh your character and present you warts and all to the Jury who decides whether or not they like what they see.
She strides over now to the rickety wooden stool you’re now sitting on, lips pursed sweetly.
“Tell the court, are you [[single]] or in a [[relationship]]?”
“This is my second time,” you answer clearly, meeting the judge’s gaze with a steely expression.
He looks away first and you take the opportunity to hunt the courtroom for the snake-tongued prosecutor. You find her sitting legs crossed at a neighboring table, a syrupy smile oozing over her face as you lock eyes. The judge informs the Jury that in these cases you’re not permitted to have a lawyer and have agreed to represent yourself. Also that the prosecutor is allowed to use any and all tactics to strip your character to it's very core for their naked judgement; nothing that you didn't already know.
Still, you can’t help but recoil a little when the prosecutor rises from her chair and slinks toward your lonely stool.
“Tell the court, are you [[single now]] or [[married]]?”
“I’m single but perfectly capable of raising a child on my own,” you respond in a level tone.
The prosecutor thumbs through a laminated file with your name on it before jabbing a fiercely lacquered fingernail at a specific spot.
“Apparently you haven’t been single for very long. My sources indicate that you are recently divorced. Care to explain what went wrong there?”
[[That’s really none of your business. The point is that I'm confident in my ability to be a mother.]]
[[It was mistake to get married in the first place. We rushed into it and things didn't work out. So I ended it and he's no longer in my life.]]
“I’m in a serious relationship.”
The prosecutor scribbles something in a moleskin notebook.
“And does this serious relationship entail [[marriage]] or [[not]]?”
“I've been married for five years now. My husband and I were engaged for three years and dated all through college before that.”
The prosecutor raises her eyebrows suspiciously and turns to the Jury.
“My my, that’s 7 years of dating before tying the knot. Seems like someone was dragging their feet for a while. It also says here that you have a measely part-time job right now while your husband is working full time.”
“He earns more with his career than I do anyway, so I work from home and ___.”
[[Take care of our other child.]]
[[Take care of my mother who lives at our house.]]
“No we’re not married but we’ve been renting a small house for four years now. We both work full time but her job pays better. So once the new baby comes I’ve agreed to stay home and take care of it.”
The prosecutor furrows her brow in mock concern and folds the tips of her fingers together in a little steeple.
“It certainly sounds like you’re committed to devoting your time to a child, but what about her? You’re not married so she could just up and leave at any given moment, saddling you with bills, work and the laboring responsibility of a single parenthood.” She grins at you with shake-like intensity.
“If she were to leave you high and dry,” the prosecutor continued, “How would you balance your career and motherhood all by yourself?”
[[I would work from home as much as I could and bring the baby to work with me if necessary.]]
[[I'll rely on family nearby to help out and look into the top daycares in my area.]]
"Bring the baby into work with you?" the prosecutor shouts, mouth hinged open.
"Are you crazy? A, you'd never get any work done and probably get fired and secondly, you'd really put your career over your own child by lugging it to an office every day instead of a caring, safe environment at home?"
You sigh exasperated.
"This is ridiculous. My partner and I aren't breaking up and I already told you that I'm going to stay home to take care of it."
The prosecutor wags a clawlike finger at you. "You can never be too careful."
So wades through her file again, eyes buried in legalese. "So, we've established that you've got what? Money, a somewheat stable relationship," her eyebrows raise skeptically over the papers, "and your medical history looks up to snuff. So that just leaves caregiving experience. Tell us, you ever push a dog around in a stroller or manage to keep a ficus alive for over a month?"
[[I take care of my mother who lives at my house.]]
[[I babysit my sister's kids during the week.]]
“We’ve been married for five years now. We were engaged for three years and dated all through college before that.”
The prosecutor raises her eyebrows suspiciously and turns to the Jury.
“My my, that’s 7 years of dating before tying the knot. Seems like someone was dragging their feet for a while. It also says here that you have a measly part-time job while your husband is working full time.”
“He earns more with his career than I do anyway, so I work from home and ___.”
[[I babysit my sister's kids a few times a week]]
[[Take care of my mother who lives at our house.]]
You square your shoulders and cock an eyebrow at the prosecutor who sniffs derisively.
"And why is your mother living with you?" she asks.
"She has type II diabetes which she can't monitor on her own so I moved her in with me to look after her more closely."
"And what sort of things do you do for your mother?"
"Well I cook for her, clean her things and give her insulin every day. We go for walks too and she likes to watch Jerry Springer. Occasionally she won't make it to the bathroom and I'll clean her up. No matter what I'm doing though, I'm always keeping an eye on her."
The prosecutor then extracts what look like medical records from her file and your jaw tighens.
"Your medical history states that you have two cousins, an aunt and a grandmother who also have type II diabetes that hit them all at an older age. This particular illness obviously runs rampant in your family is likely to surface in you. Although it can be treated, why pass it on to a new generation? The risk is too great for the court to grant you natural conception."
"However," she continues, "you show excellent caregiving skills but I'm afraid that taking care of your ailing mother and a newborn child might be too much to handle all at once. Do you have anything to argue to the Jury before they make their descision?"
[[I can put my mother in a nursing home nearby to devote my full attention to the baby.]]
[[I can't turn my back on my mother]], but I'm open to looking into other options like hiring a live-in nurse or enlisting family and friends to help when needed. She's very good with children and I'm determined to make this work.
The prosecutor looks taken aback by your response but is also notably impressed.
"Not very many people would cast their own mother aside like that," she says with admiration and you wince at her choice of words.
"But raising a child requires sacrifice and the fact that you're willing to give up your mother says a lot about the level of devotion you will have for a child."
The Jury is dismissed and returns some time later with a statement granting you to seek adoption.
You let the hollow victory sink in and feel a wave of nausea bubbling up. You snatch your purse and hurl into it for a few minutes while the prosecutor comes over to hold back your hair.
"You did good," she says as you stand there dry-heaving. "I have a feeling you're going to set an excellent example for that kid."
The prosectuor clucks at your response as if you were a child being scolded.
"Desperation doesn't look good on you," she sneers. "Those promises are all well and good but that's just what they are: promises. The Jury of the Unborn needs to see action and hard evidence to support their justification of granting you a child. You have no feasible plan for taking care of your sick mother, a helpless newborn and scrambling up enough money to support your miserable existence. The Jury would be taking quite a gamble on you as a mother."
The prosecutor sashays back to her chair, takes a seat and flashes the court a winning smile that makes you want to rip out her stringy hair.
When the Jury comes back however, your heart only slightly deflates at their announcement for you apply again later when you are less burdened. It's not a permanent no, you just have to be better prepared next time.
The prosecutor narrows her eyes at you.
"You admit that your marriage was founded on rash descisions and as a result, you broke it off. What makes us so sure that this permit application wasn't also filled out on a whim? Without the ability to plan ahead for large life descisions, how are we supposed to entrust you with a child who you won't be able to return when things get rough."
She stops pacing for a moment and looks you over with disdain.
"Still, you had the brains to call it off when you realized the marriage wasn't going to survive and resolved the problem with efficiency and maturity. That shows great self-awareness."
You don't say anything and keep your face blank, not wanting to give her anything she can use against you.
"Now, do you have any caregiving experience to prove that you are capable of raising a child on your own which is decidedly more difficult?"
[[I babysit my sister's kids during the week.]]
[[I take care of my mother who lives at my house.]]
"Yes I remember," the prosecutor groans. You think back to the first time you dealt with her and how she walked all over you then. You round your shoulders back and sit up a little taller, this time determined to come out unscathed.
"Yes," you continue with stoney edge to your voice, "my husband and I worked very hard to earn our son two years ago and ever since we've taken extraordinary measures to ensure his safety and happiness."
The prosecutor flaps a hand at you to shut you up and flips through her file again. "It's true that you've proven yourselves to be very good parents with your firstborn. Model parents actually," she says and your surprise at her compliment registers on your face.
"Frequent visits to the doctor's office, a gradual switch from breast milk to formula, successful pottytraining, good sleeper, good eater; you even have a kindergarten school picked out," the prosecutor notes.
"Yes," you speak up happily, "It was actually recommended to us by-"
"But your finances are looking pretty grim," she cuts you off with renewed energy and your enthusiasm dies.
"Student loans from both of you, mortgage payments, car payments, utilities, groceries, gas, clothing plus all your savings that you drained on everything your little prince needed. With so much debt in a single-income household how can you possibly afford another child right now or ever for that matter?"
[[All of our current expenses have made us very good at budgeting. We've got plenty of hand-me-downs for a new baby and although we live frugally, there's always ways to cut costs even more.]]
[[I'll work flexible hours and rely on family nearby to help out. I’ll also look into the top daycares in my area.]]
You square your shoulders and cock an eyebrow at the prosecutor who sniffs derisively.
"And why is your mother living with you?" she asks.
"She has type II diabetes which she can't monitor on her own so I moved her in with me to look after her more closely."
"And what sort of things do you do for your mother?"
"Well I cook for her, clean her things and give her insulin every day. We go for walks too and she likes to watch Jerry Springer. Occasionally she won't make it to the bathroom and I'll clean her up. No matter what I'm doing though, I'm always keeping an eye on her."
The prosecutor extracts what look like medical records from her file and your jaw tighens.
"Your medical history states that you have two cousins, an aunt and a grandmother who also have type II diabetes that all hit them at an older age. This particular illness obviously runs rampant in your family and is likely to surface in you. Although it can be treated, why pass it on to a new generation? The risk is too great for the court to grant you natural conception."
"However," she continues, "you show excellent caregiving skills but I'm afraid that taking care of your ailing mother and a newborn child might be too much to handle all at once. Do you have anything to argue to the Jury before they make their descision?"
[[I can put my mother in a nursing home nearby to devote my full attention to the baby.]]
[[I can't turn my back on my mother]], but I'm open to looking into other options like hiring a live-in nurse or enlisting family and friends to help. She's very good with children and I'm determined to make this work.
The prosecutor scoffs at your suggestion.
"Daycare isn't cheap honey, your surrounding family better be as reliable as you say they are because you can't afford any babysitters."
She then whips out a lengthy, inked-up collection of documents and fans them out to show the Jury. You feel the color drain from you face as you realize that they could only be one thing.
"Medical records," she announces proudly.
You force yourself to take deep breaths and launch into your rehearsed mental pep talk. Ok, you knew this was coming. You knew your options were going to be more limited this time but you can't give up hope. Not yet at least.
"Not only is your family struggling to stay afloat in a sea of average loans, but you're also stringing together chump change to pay for your son's glaucoma treatments."
Stay stong, you tell yourself. Keep it together.
"Yes," the prosecutor plows on, "you son, whom you earned a parenthood permit for through natural conception, is going blind at two years old. Not the strongest genepool there ladies and gentlemen."
She's really bearing down on you now but you stay statuesque, fighting the sweat piddling on your forehead.
"Sure there are some temporary solutions, eye drops and pills, but it might as well be money flushed down the toilet for all the good they do in the long run. No, the only way to really treat glaucoma is to pay for a one of a handful of exspensive eye surgeries with prices skyrocketing to the moon! But can you afford this? Not even in your wildest dreams."
The prosecutor dares to issue a strangled laugh and your heart thumps against your chest like a pigeon trapped in a garage. You knew it was going to be bad but it's taking every fiber of your being to not race over and sock that bitch right in the jaw. She turns to you.
"It's probably too late for your son. He'll be blind by the time he's tall enough to ride roller coasters. So why do you want to take the chance on another kid?"
[[We think he would really benefit from having a sibling around. A real companion for him to play with and stand up for him at school. I'm pleading for adoption here, please.]]
[[We just got a new health insurance plan that will help cover more of the medical expenses. We're asking the state for financial help to treat our son's illness. We're doing the best we can and have hope for the future.]]
The prosecutor tuts impatiently, not at all impressed with your morale.
"It's going to take more than a can-do attitude to earn this baby. Sure you've got hand-me-downs but the bottom line is that you don't have a concrete plan in place to justify paying for another child. I suggest you and your hubby finish paying off the first one before investing in another because the Jury of the Unborn is obligated to only present children to families who can afford it."
The prosector rolls her eyes at you and your nerve at even being here, taking up space and people's time. You swallow hard.
Before long the Jury reappears after a short debate and declares you unfit for another child. You burst into tears and run out of the courtroom sobbing uncontrolably. The prosectuor snorts at your retreating form and pulls a gold-filtered cigarette from her Chanel handbag, lights it and takes a long draft. Her diamond earrings catch the light and twinkle as smoke exhales from her nostrils like tusks.
"Daycares and family, huh?" The prosecutor pulls out a nail file from seemingly out of nowhere and begins sawing away at her magenta-tipped talons.
"That may seem like the right solution," she purrs, "but this life plan you've outlined will only result in limited contact with your child. Why should the jury place a helpless baby in your arms if you're just going to pass her off to someone else while you prioritize your career?"
You sigh exasperated.
"This is ridiculous. My partner and I aren't breaking up and I already told you that I'm going to stay home to take care of it."
The prosecutor brandishes her nail file at you, "Yes that's what we'd like to believe, but with such a loose arrangement between you two it's mandatory to have a fall back plan if things don't pan out in loversville." She pockets the nail file and twiddles her thumbs, "It wouldn't be fair to put a child in the middle of all that parental dysfunction."
You're starting to feel dizzy from sifting through all these hypothetical situations and wonder if the prosecutor is this thorough with all couples, straight and gay.
"But let's table that issue for right now," she presses on, "because we're obviously getting nowhere. You already know that natural conception is out of the question for same-sex applicants, so would you rather take your chances on adoption or surrogacy?"
[[Adoption. My partner and I don't want to bring another child into the world when there are already several in need of loving parents and a stable home.]]
[[We want to try for surrogacy. My partner has a few bad allergies but I don't have any severe health problems to pass on to a child.]]
"Someone for him to play with? Get a hamster then lady. At least that burial will be cheap."
You lunge across the floor at her and in seconds are at her neck. You're pinning her down with your knees and smacking her lumpy face against the wooden floor. Then your fingers curl around her windpipe and you hear maniacal laughter coming from a disembodied voice somewhere before realizing that it's you.
The baliff comes careening out of nowhere and hauls you off the prosectuor, but you're still kicking and clawing like a rapid animal against his refridgerator physique. You're being dragged now and people in the hallway are staring. They're frightened of this dangerous woman who finally collapses into the baliff, reduced to a sniveling mess as she's carted out of the courtroom.
The prosecutor stumbles to her feet and pops a bone back into place. She feels your fingerprints still indented in her neck and smirks. "And I thought I wouldn't have any fun today," she says turning to the flabbergasted Jury. "Shame on me."
The prosecutor folds her arms and leans back on her heels, looking mildly impressed that you have something put together.
"That's a good start," she says at last. "That's a real good start. But it's only the beginning. I say give it a few years and come back, but for now, a new child would only bring you down faster."
The Jury pads out of the room, tip-toeing around the palpale tension between you and the prosecutor. You wrestle with your skirt while they're gone, unable to keep your hands still and praying for a miracle. Finally, after what feels like an earth's rotation, they trundle back in and deliver their statement. You've been denied due to poor medical history and financial standing. You kick the stool over and stride out of the room, thinking over the offer you recieved earlier from a friend to hook you up with someone she knows on the black market.
"That's sweet of you," the prosectuor drones, steamrolling forward. "How old are these kids?"
"5 and 3. Both girls."
"Interesting," she runs a hand through a shock of silverish hair. "But why would you need to look after your sister's kids when she earned two parenthood permits herself? In getting those permits she proved that she was able to take care of her own kids, so why are you saddled with them?"
The prosecutor leans in conspiratorially. "Did she get into some trouble? A bad boyfriend, debt, drugs? Remember, there's no secrets here."
[[She decided to change careers so I volunteered to watch her kids while she went out job-hunting.]]
[[Actually, she's recovering from surgery. Thanks for the assumptions about my trainwreck family though.]]
The prosecutor bristles at your response and her coal eyes rake over your skin.
"Everything is the court's business when you apply for a child," she shrieks. "If you have something to hide from us then you obviously aren't trustworthy or aren't taking this seriously. Either way you're wasting this court's time with your immaturity."
The judge nods in agreement with the prosectuor and bangs his gavel.
"Application denied for lack of compliance with the rules."
The prosecutor chuckles at your dry delivery.
"You said that like you're being sentenced to the guillotine."
She prowls over to you then and leans in conspiratorially, like you're old pals. "You know, you don't have to get married. You can raise a child on your own with a strong enough argument," she throws in a wink, "and honestly you'd have a decent shot."
She backs away, palms facing up before pivoting on her heel. "Or, you can take the plunge with your live-in girlfriend who you're so thoroughly invested in and begin the grueling preparation for surrogacy. It all comes down to how badly you want this child."
Before you can answer the Jury rises and moves out of the room in a herd. While they're away you balanace the weight of your four-year relationship with your soul-ripping desire for motherhood now, not later. The prosecutor's finger waves from across the room do not help.
After some time the Jury lumbers back in and grants you permission to pursue surrogacy, but only if you and your partner commit to marriage before the sperm and egg are planted inside you.
You stand still, breathless for a moment as their words slowly take form in your tired brain. Then the full impact of the victory hits you and you let loose in an ear-splitting cheer as the prosecutor deflates into a chair, utter disbelief sketched across her face. Tears fly out of your eyes as you race down the line of jurors, shaking everyone's hands while applause ricochets around the room. At the sound of clapping, the prosecutor snaps out of her stupefaction and hurls you a menacing look but you're already out the door, overjoyed to get home and share the news with your amazing girlfriend. You're only regret later on is not taking a mental photograph of the prosecutor's slack-jawed defeat to cherish forever.
"'Change careers?'" The prosecutor snickers, glancing through her file. "Is that what we're calling it now instead of getting sentenced to drug rehabilitation?"
You sink lower in your stool and wish your body could just pool onto the floor.
"'Smuggling narcotics at work and at home.'" The prosecutor reads aloud, enuciating every word for Jury's benefit. "It also says here that you've been appointed the legal guardian of her little rugrats in the mean time." Then she takes note of your shaking fists and seething face.
"You're quite the mama bear when it comes to protecting your baby sister," she remarks cooly. "I'll bet you bailed her out a lot while growing up and now you're making sure her kids stay out of trouble too."
"Yeah, what's it to you?"
She scowls. "I'm just making observations that happen to be in your favor for once. So you can drop the attitude."
You plop back onto your stool.
"However, with your addict sister not being sprung anytime soon and your undertaking of her unfortunate children, I don't see how you could possibly have the time or money to make room for a new member of this big, happy family. I say keep your nieces's noses clean and maybe after a few years revisit the idea of natural conception. Hell, maybe even try to adopt the little buggers if their mom stays in rehab for long enough."
The Jury ventures out at this time and you're left to wade through the constant sea of worry sloshing around in your head. Worry for your husband, your sister, your nieces, yourself; its become so bad that you now wrestle with three headaches a week.
The Jury reneters and delivers their statement urging you to apply again later when things aren't so hectic. The verdict doesn't surprise you, but your reaction does. As their words rain down, a waterfall of relief that you had been supressing finally washes over every pore in your body. You now understand and accept that this is not the time to bring another baby into the picture and as much as you hate to admit it, maybe the prosecutor is right some of the time. It's just easy to forget that her job is to look out for all the unborn children.
The prosecutor flashes a polished smile. "Anytime. Makes my job a little less stick-a-fork-in-the-eye boring."
Then, as if to illustrate her own apathy, she pulls a smartphone out of her blazer and starts scrolling through social media. "What kind of surgery?" she barks at you, eyes trained to the screen.
"Hysterectomy."
You steal a glance at the clock hanging on the opposite wall and groan. You don't know how much longer you can stand this ordeal. But then you think of your husband and how proud he was this morning. You remember the faint lemon water scent of his breath in your ear as he held you for a good 20 minutes before leaving you to the mercy of the courthouse. "If anybody can do this it's you," he'd said, surveying you like a soldier going into battle.
"How long is your sister's recovery supposed to be?" the prosecutor snaps, fingers now flying across the keypad.
"Eight weeks and she's done five so far. She's mainly on bedrest and I come over every day to take care of her and the kids."
"And what sort of things do you do for your sister and her kids?"
"I feed, bathe, change and put my nieces to bed every night at 7. During the day I make sure my sister is comfortable and help her go to the bathroom. I bring her meals and make sure the children don't accidentally hurt her while sitting on the bed. When she's really exhausted she'll take a nap and I'll play with the girls until their nap. This is when I get my work done on the computer."
You think you see the faint outline of a smile flicker across the prosecutor's lips as the smartphone disappears back in her pocket, but it's gone before you can be sure.
"I take it that once your sister is fully recovered that she'll be able to take full responsibility for her daughters again?"
"Of course," you respond now beyond exasperated, and to your amazement the prosecutor informs the Jury that she has no more questions and shoos them out of the room.
You later learn that your case featured one of the fastest turnarounds in the history of the Jury of the Unborn. The verdict is unanimous: you and your husband are allowed to pursue natural conception in three weeks after each of you passes a routine health inspection. Your hands are shaking as you dial your husband's number, unable to wait until you get home to share the news, and the thunderous joy in his voice reduces you to tears. The prosecutor strides over while you're hyperventilating and squeezes your hand, meeting your eyes with something like respect. "I can't fight good parents," she says with resignation and walks away, leaving you to your bright future.
“I’m single but perfectly capable of raising a child on my own,” you respond in a level tone.
The prosecutor thumbs through a laminated file with your name on it. "You're awfully confident for someone who's been denied a parenthood permit before."
Yellow roses bloom on your cheeks and you feel sick as the prosector's pale eyes cook you.
"That was one year ago, correct?"
You give an inperceptible nod and stare at your shoes, trying to steady one leg that's vibrating.
Then you hear a loud smack and look up to see the prosecutor jab a fiercely lacquered fingernail at a specific page in your file.
“Apparently you haven’t been single for very long though. My sources indicate that you are recently divorced. Care to explain what went wrong there?”
[[That’s really none of your business. The point is that I'm confident in my ability to be a mother.]]
[[It was mistake to get married in the first place. We rushed into it and things didn't work out. So I ended it and he's no longer in my life.]]
"That's sweet of you," the prosectuor drones, steamrolling forward. "How old are these kids?"
"5 and 3. Both girls."
"Interesting," she runs a hand through a shock of silverish hair. "But why would you need to look after your sister's kids when she earned two parenthood permit herself? In getting those permits she proved that she be able to take care of her own kids, so why are you saddled with them?"
The prosecutor leans in conspiratorially. "Did she get into some trouble? A bad boyfriend, debt, a drug ring? Remember, there's no secrets here."
[[She decided to change careers so I volunteered to watch her kids while she went out job-hunting.]]
[[Actually, she's on a mission trip. Thank you for the assumptions about my trainwreck family though.]]
The prosectuor pushes your sarcasm aside and searches your face for any misgivings.
"What kind of mission trip?" she snaps.
You roll your eyes. "She's in Nashville doing Habitat for Humanity."
"When was the last time you heard from her?"
You lift your shoulders, "Maybe a week ago?"
The prosecuter stops pacing and stares at you like you're a sack of potatoes. "You don't remember the last time you talked to your own sister?"
"No, but she's really bad at answering texts. She's probably just swept up in the do-gooding."
Hard lines are taking shape on the prosecutor's face now as her brow dips lower and lower. "So you can't get a hold of your sister and she hasn't made any contact with her kids at all?"
"No because she trusts me to take care of them," you assert, now annoyed at having to recircle this topic. "She doesn't need to check up on me."
But the prosecutor's face had gone white and for the first time you see genuine fear mixed in with her usual mien of menace. "Someone contact this Habitat for Humanity in Nashville right now," she screams and thrusts a finger at you, "CALL HER NOW! I'm not continuing this case until we can locate this woman."
There's a brief recess while you call your sister several times, always getting voicemail while other court officials try to track her down. Finally, the prosecutor gets ahold of the Habitat for Humanity office. "No one has seen your sister for five days," she says turning to you and your pulse starts racing.
The prosecutor is now making another call and beckoning the baliff over. She places a hand over the reciever and gestures to you, "Escort her to the police station for questioning and get someone from child services over to that house. We need to know if she's involved."
The baliff claps your arm an iron grip and starts steering you toward the exit as a millions of fears people your small imagination. The Jury are now on their feet murmuring and the room starts spinning. They can't possibly think you have anything to do with your sister's disapearence, could they? Right as your reach the doorway, you can't help yourself and crane your neck around, catching the prosecutor's eye.
"Does this mean I don't get my parenthood permit?"
The last thing you see is the prosecutor's murderous expression as you're whisked out of the courtroom.
The prosecutor nods approvingly at your response. "Ever since Sanger's speech became law, the need for adoption has become less and less waranted. But it's only been a decade and there are still plenty of abandoned children waiting to be taken in by some new loving guardians. We know that number will grow extinct within the next few years and your participation is invaluable."
You're elated at having struck a chord with the prosecutor but still hold your tongue, not knowing how long she'll be on your side.
"Still, your relationship status is concerning. Such a brittle foundation that could break at any moment. Putting an adopted child, who has already endured enough hardship, in that unstable household would be unwise and cruel. So let's break this down; why haven't you made the committment to marriage?"
[[Marriage is on the agenda, but right now we feel that we don't need to be legally bound to know that we'll be good parents.]]
[[That’s really none of your business. The point is that I'm confident in my ability to be a mother.]]
The prosecutor sucks in air, looking uneasy as the corners of her mouth pull down in a puppet-like grimace.
"I don't know." shes trills, "That's going to take a very long time to sort out. We'd have to perform extensive examinations on you to determine if your eggs are acceptable and if they're not, then you'd have to apply for an egg donor on top of a sperm donor which is a whole other legel department to go back and forth with. The whole process could take months if not years to mandate and then you'd have to be monitored very closely during the pregnancy which will rake up loads of medical fees with frightening copays."
The prosecutor pauses in her rant just then to scan you for any visible signs of distress; you stay expressionless and she crinkles her nose in distaste.
"Even if you could afford it and patiently twiddled your thumbs while all the medical work unfolded, why would the Jury want to invest in a couple whose relationship is not one hundred percent secure? So let's break this down; what can you do to convince us that you are your partner are in this for life?"
[[Marriage is on the agenda, but right now we feel that we don't need to be legally bound to know that we'll be good parents.]]
[[We can get legally married at the courthouse as soon as possible and present the paperwork to you with our next application.]]
The prosecutor stops pacing for a moment and shoots you a pointed look. "What are you waiting for? If you like it, then put a ring on it."
The jury sidles out of the room then and returns after only a short time of deliberation. You feel like you already know their answer before they even open their mouths: apply again later when you can either ensure a committed relationship i.e. marriage or justify raising a baby on your own.
Your shoulders collapse and the crushing blow of defeat burrows in your intestines. You close your eyes and think about what's really holding you back from marriage and picture the worse case scenario of coming out to your fire-and-brimstone Catholic family. Then you imagine the worse case scenario for the abandoned child, your child, who you could've saved. Suddenly what matters most becomes painfully clear and you stride out of the courtoom with a new purpose and hope for the future.