They wanted my riverfront condo for Brittany and Jamal.
They wanted me in my parents’ basement, watched like a problem.
Brittany continued. “Jamal and I could move into the condo and take care of it. The guest room gets beautiful morning light. It would be perfect for the baby.”
There it was.
Not hidden.
Not subtle.
She had already decorated my home.
Evelyn placed two fingers lightly on my wrist.
“Let her,” she whispered.
So I let her.
My mother testified next.
Patricia walked to the stand in beige heels and a performance of grief.
She told the judge I had been “difficult” since childhood.
She said I isolated myself.
She said I created fantasies about important work.
She described the night two years earlier when she had entered my condo without permission and found me exhausted on the sofa, surrounded by coffee cups and security reports.
“She was muttering about firewalls,” Patricia said, voice cracking. “International breaches. Protocols. It was terrifying.”
