The worst part wasn’t the insult. I’d lived with his insults the way people live with weather. You learn what to wear. You learn how to walk through it.
The worst part was the laughter.
It started with my brother, Cameron, a clean, sharp chuckle that turned into a grin. Then two cousins I barely recognized. Then a low ripple from the gallery, because wealthy men make people laugh when they point at someone else. Even my father’s attorneys smiled like they were watching a show they’d already paid for.
My mother didn’t laugh.
She didn’t defend me either.
She stared at her hands and did what she’d always done—turned silent until silence looked like virtue.
I stood at my table in a plain dark suit, shoulders squared, fingers loosely interlaced so no one could see the tension. The courthouse smelled like polished wood and expensive perfume. The lights made everything shine, like the building believed truth would always be neat.
My father loved rooms like this—rooms he could control. Boardrooms. Fundraisers. Private clubs where people spoke softly and agreed quickly. In those rooms he didn’t need to be kind.
