Part 6
The three weeks leading up to the court date were surprisingly serene.
Without the constant hum of family drama, my salon business flourished. I took on two new high-end bridal clients, re-evaluated my pricing structure, and even managed to put $500 into Andrew’s college savings account—the real one, not the one Mary thought she had dibs on.
Andrew seemed happier, too. Kids absorb tension like little sponges, even when adults think they are hiding it. Without the dark cloud of my family's disapproval hanging over our heads, his laughter was louder, his sleep was deeper, and his little drawings of spaceships filled up three entire sketchpads.
On the morning of the court hearing, I dressed in a sharp, professional navy blue blazer, tailored trousers, and low heels. I looked like a woman who meant business.
Andrew stayed with my wonderful neighbor, Mrs. Gable, who baked him chocolate chip cookies and played board games with him.
When I arrived at the courthouse in downtown L.A., the hallways were bustling with nervous people holding manila folders. I found the designated courtroom and waited quietly on a wooden bench outside.
At 9:45 a.m., Mary and Eric walked through the double doors.
Mary looked like she hadn't slept in weeks. Her hair was pulled back in a hasty ponytail, and her designer handbag clutched in her grip looked like a shield. Eric looked exhausted, staring miserably at the linoleum floor. Behind them walked my mother, leaning heavily on a cane, her face carved in stone disapproval.
Mom spotted me sitting across the hall. She stopped dead in her tracks, her lips thinning into a bitter line.
She marched over, her eyes flashing with disappointment. "Amber. I am ashamed to call you my daughter. Dragging your own sister in front of a judge over petty squabbles. Drop this lawsuit right now, or you are dead to this family."
I stood up slowly, towering slightly over my mother. My voice was calm, steady, and devoid of the fear she was used to eliciting.
"Mom, you stopped treating me like a daughter a long time ago. To you, I've always just been Mary's servant and an inconvenience in your life. If upholding basic respect and fairness makes me dead to you, then consider me resting in peace."
Mom recoiled as if I had slapped her. She opened her mouth to speak, but the bailiff stepped out of the courtroom doors, calling out our case number: Willis v. Johnson.
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"All rise," the bailiff announced.
We filed into the courtroom. The room was small, smelling faintly of old paper and polished wood. The judge, a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties with silver hair named Judge Henderson, sat behind the elevated mahogany bench, reviewing our case files with quiet concentration.
