When My Father Stood Up In A County Courtroom, Looked A Jury Of His Friends In The Eye

That is what my father says under oath to a jury of nine people who have known him since before I was born.

I do not flinch.

I do not turn.

I take a sip from the plastic cup of water in front of me—metallic, lukewarm, the kind of water that tastes like old pipes and courthouse dust—and I set it back down on the wooden rail without a sound.

My name is Elena Vance. I am forty-one years old. And up until nine seconds ago, I was sitting in the witness box in Fairfax County Circuit Court listening to my father describe a woman I barely recognized.

Now I am watching Robert Vance wave a manila folder at the jury like it is a battle flag.