A half-dozen Corinthian columns lined the courthouse façade as I walked up the stone steps with my aunt and uncle on either side of me, the building still as imposing as my first visit several months ago. I was no less afraid of entering through the wide, oak doors than I had been before, though for far different reasons. The interior of the courthouse was spacious. From the atrium at the entrance, I could see all the way up to the fourth and highest floor, where the family court proceedings would take place. Paintings of former judges – their legal garb providing a sense of gravitas – lined the walls. The building was oppressive in its grandeur, instilling a sense of dread as I meandered through the wide hallways.