Why I Let Them Walk Into Court Confident
If I proved my identity too early, they’d pivot.
They’d claim they were “just concerned.”
They’d leave the courtroom with clean hands and dirty motives.
I wanted the opposite.
I wanted them on the record.
I wanted the judge to hear the cruelty in Beatrice’s voice.
The entitlement.
The casual confidence of someone weaponizing the legal system.
So I didn’t hire a flashy attorney.
I didn’t fight in the press.
I didn’t argue with the gossip.
I showed up.
Alone.
Calm.
And I watched them perform.
Beatrice filled the gallery with allies—pearls, perfume, and righteous faces trained to look offended on command.
Her lawyer told a dramatic story:
I was a parasite.
I lied to “trap” her son.
I pretended to be a doctor to gain access to their “legacy.”
Then Beatrice took the stand.
And said things so absurd people actually laughed.
She claimed I didn’t know basic medicine.
That I smelled like chemicals because I “scrubbed floors.”
That my hands were proof I couldn’t possibly be a surgeon.
She said it with confidence.
The confidence of a bully who has never been corrected.
Then their “expert” held up a crumpled certificate they’d pulled from my trash.
He tried to analyze fonts like it was forensic science.
He declared it “clearly a forgery.”
When he finished, their lawyer smiled like the game was over.
And that’s when the bailiff announced the judge.
Judge Evelyn Sterling.
My blood ran cold.
Because I knew her.
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