He looked directly at Michael and Amanda. “I suggest you reconsider filing claims without proper evidence in the future.”
He struck his gavel once, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said quietly.
He nodded to me, something kind in his expression, then gathered his papers and stood.
I collected my folder, tucked it back into my purse, and turned to leave. As I walked past their table, Amanda muttered something under her breath. I didn’t catch all of it, but I heard the word selfish clearly enough.
I kept walking.
Michael stood frozen, staring at the floor. Our eyes didn’t meet. I don’t think he could bring himself to look at me.
I pushed through the courtroom doors and into the hallway. The building felt warmer now—or maybe I just felt lighter. I walked down the corridor, past the waiting benches, toward the main entrance.
Outside, the air was cold and sharp, stinging my cheeks. The sky had darkened and tiny snowflakes were beginning to fall, drifting lazily down from gray clouds. I stood on the courthouse steps for a moment, breathing in the winter air, watching the snow dust the sidewalk.
It should have felt lonely, standing there by myself—estranged from my son, cut off from my grandchildren, walking away from the only family I had left.
But it didn’t feel lonely.
It felt like freedom.
Four months passed like pages turning in a quiet book. Winter settled over the city, then softened into early spring. The trees outside my apartment turned green, then burst into full leaf. Life moved forward, gentle and steady, and I moved with it.
I’d found my rhythm at Metobrook. Tuesday mornings were book club with Ruth and five other women who loved mysteries as much as I did. Wednesday afternoons, I volunteered at the community center downtown, teaching younger seniors how to use computers and smartphones. Thursdays, I painted in the art room on the first floor, discovering I had a decent hand for watercolors when given the chance.
My apartment filled with small joys: a new throw pillow Ruth helped me pick out, paintings I’d made myself hanging on the walls, fresh flowers from the farmers market every Sunday.
The silence I’d been so afraid of never felt empty. It felt full. Rich. Mine.
I spoke to Harold’s photograph often, updating him on my days, asking his opinion on things—even though I already knew what he’d say. Sometimes I’d laugh at my own jokes, and that felt okay too.
My phone stayed mostly quiet. Michael never called. Amanda never texted. The grandchildren, I assumed, were told some version of events that painted me as the villain. That stung sometimes late at night when my mind wandered.
But it didn’t break me.
