He nodded as if he had extracted a confession. “So your child has had to assume emotional responsibility in the home.”
“No,” I said, heat rising in me. “She has witnessed pain. That is different.”
He moved on without acknowledging the answer.
He asked about my freelance income, emphasizing the variability. He asked whether I had ever raised my voice during arguments with Mark. He asked whether I considered myself an anxious person. He asked whether I had sought therapy after the filing, turning even that into evidence of fragility rather than responsibility. Every honest answer seemed to place another neat brick in the story they wanted.
By the time I stepped down, I could feel my own body betraying me—shaking hands, dry mouth, tears I refused to let fall until I sat again beside Margaret. Across the room, Kelly watched with that same pinched sympathy, and Mark kept his eyes on the table as though the woman I had been for ten years was now merely a procedural obstacle.
Then Mark testified.
He lied with restraint, which somehow made it worse.