My husband called me a whale, kissed his mistress in public, and told me to “dust the library.” Then he strutted into New York’s most exclusive Diamond Gala thinking he was untouchable.

His attorney, Harlon Drake, was silver-haired, expensive, and full of the kind of civility certain men use the way others use knives.

“Your Honor,” Drake said once proceedings began, “the petitioner maintains that Mrs. Carter’s long-term concealment of her financial identity, combined with her extensive orchestration of business environments surrounding my client, demonstrates a pattern of manipulative conduct incompatible with healthy parenting.”

Patricia stood. “Objection. Argumentative and unsupported.”

“Sustained,” Judge Harrison said dryly. “Mr. Drake, save the editorial voice for cable news.”

There was restrained laughter in the gallery.

Drake adjusted his tie. “Then let us discuss facts. Mrs. Carter lied to my client for five years about who she was.”

Patricia called Gloria Sinclair.

Gloria walked to the stand with a cane she did not entirely need but which had the useful side effect of making people underestimate her for exactly fifteen seconds. She wore a navy floral dress, church hat, and expression of holy impatience.

After swearing in, she settled herself and looked at Drake as if he were a salesman who had knocked at the door too early on a Saturday.