Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 125866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
I’d survived the cross-examination from Marshall’s lawyers, the way they’d tried to twist their questions and my response in tandem to get what they wanted out of me. Fortunately, the lawyer Kyle had hired for us had worked on this with me, and I was prepared.
I also had nothing to hide — unlike my ex-husband, who looked a bit sweaty in his seat as he watched me stand and address the court for the final time.
When I’d asked our lawyer for permission to read a personal statement to the judge, she’d originally nixed the idea. It wasn’t traditional. It wasn’t how things worked. She didn’t want the judge to think we were going for hysterics or fanfare.
But this was the one thing I’d insisted on.
In order for me to read a statement, though, Marshall had to be allowed to read one of his own. He’d done so yesterday, pleading with the judge and making himself tear up and look innocent, like he’d been painted as a victim, when really he was just a good father battling against a selfish mother who wanted to take his child.
Kyle elected not to testify — mostly at my insistence. We both knew my fiancé and the father of the child in my belly wouldn’t be exactly trustworthy as a source. He would be entirely biased, and anything he did say would likely be taken with a grain of salt.
I knew it had killed him to sit out. But he was still here, front row, right behind our lawyer, and holding hands with my mom, who held hands with my father, who looked ready to kill Marshall if the judge didn’t make the right decision at the end of all of this.
Kyle’s season had ended earlier than we’d wanted. Unfortunately, Seattle didn’t make it to the playoffs. And as much as I hated that for him and for the team, I was selfishly thankful that he could be here for this, that he didn’t have to rush off to the stadium for practice or fly away for a game.
I ran my steady, non-shaking hands over my round belly. Our daughter was the size of a head of lettuce now, growing stronger every week. Sebastian was having the hardest time waiting out of all of us. He couldn’t bear another day without meeting his baby sister.
I closed my eyes and reached for her in that moment. I asked her to give me strength and poise and confidence. I asked her to help me finally bring this family peace.
“Your Honor,” I began, pleased to hear my voice was as even and serene as I felt inside. “I want to thank you for allowing me to address you with this personal statement. I realize this is not traditional, but I hope you can understand that — as a woman who has been silent for many years — I found it of the utmost importance to stand before you today and give the final word on my account.”
Judge Hall, an old, bald gentleman with warm brown skin, a black beard tinted with spots of white, and dark eyes that were somehow kind and severe at the same time, nodded in way of acknowledgement but did not give any other emotion away.
I’d watched him listen intently to Marshall the day before, and I hadn’t been able to read him then, either. This man had heard both of our stories. He’d interviewed my son. Could he see the truth, or was he blinded by Marshall’s squeaky-clean professional record and reputation the way so many others were?
“On my phone, there are hundreds and hundreds of photographs of my son,” I said, a genuine smile finding my lips. “There are pictures of him wrapped as a newborn in my arms as I nursed him while running on little to no sleep. There are videos of him using the couch to help himself stand, to navigate walking on his tiny legs for the first time. There are photos of his first day of daycare, his first day of pre-school, his first day of kindergarten, his first lost tooth.”
I swallowed, my smile slipping.
“In-between those beautiful memories are photos with a more haunting story to tell. Pictures of bruises on my arms, of the skin above my eye split and angry and bleeding, of me on my bathroom floor sobbing and rocking in pain from being kicked in the stomach — an injury no one could see, but that I felt for weeks.”
I didn’t have to turn around to know that Kyle was likely squeezing my mother’s hand off as he listened to this, that my mother was likely straining to hold both men at her sides back from tackling the man I was accusing of doing these things to me.
I also thought I heard a scuffle of some sort from where Marshall sat with his attorneys, like he was ready to defend himself, and they had to remind him to be quiet.