Then came minimization. “Families have tense moments.”
Then came victimhood. “She has always misunderstood my tone.”
The judge, a woman with silver hair and a voice that sounded permanently unimpressed, let Suzanne speak just long enough to reveal herself. Then she asked one question.
“Did you place your hand in your daughter’s hair while your daughter was holding an infant less than two days after abdominal surgery?”
Suzanne froze. “I touched her. I did not assault her.”
“Did you place your hand in her hair?”
A long pause.
“Yes, but—”
The rest no longer mattered.
Philip tried to object morally. “This is a family matter.”
The judge looked at him over her glasses. “Domestic assault often is.”
By the end of the hearing, the restraining order stood. Five hundred feet. No calls, texts, indirect contact, messages through third parties, surprise appearances, or social media harassment. Suzanne’s face tightened into something dry and furious. Philip looked bewildered that his discomfort had failed to move the room. Cheryl whispered to her attorney with the frantic disbelief of someone learning that adulthood has weight.