I had not seen him in four years. Not since Caleb had slowly isolated me, dismissing my family as irrelevant, scheduling obligations over holidays, intercepting calls, convincing me I was a burden until silence became routine and my brother faded into absence.
The judge’s hand tightened on the bench. His jaw clenched.
“Order,” he said, and his voice trembled.
Caleb straightened, confidence intact. Vivian smirked.
Judge Morrison leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Bailiff,” he said quietly. “Close the doors.”
The heavy wooden doors swung shut with a final sound that cut off the hallway noise and sealed the room. The bailiff moved to stand guard, tension thickening like fog.
Caleb’s smile faltered.
“Your Honor,” he began smoothly, “this is a straightforward dissolution. My wife is emotional due to pregnancy.”
“Do not speak about her body,” the judge said sharply.
Vivian scoffed. “Can we proceed? She is playing the victim.”
“Ms. Cross,” the judge said evenly, “did you strike Mrs. Whitfield in my courtroom.”
“She walked into me,” she replied.
“That is not an answer,” he said. “Let the record reflect visible injury.”
Caleb shifted. “This is unnecessary.”