The judge, Harold Whitman, looked over his glasses at me.
I looked back calmly.
I did not blink.
I did not cry.
I did not give them the breakdown they had clearly rehearsed for.
Mr. Caldwell continued. “Cassidy works in low-level technical support. Yet she lives in a luxury condominium and drives a ninety-thousand-dollar SUV. The family has reason to believe she is drowning in debt, refusing treatment, and living inside a fantasy of professional importance.”
Low-level technical support.
That was what I had told my family for years because explaining my real job to them would have been like explaining fire to a goldfish.
It was easier to let them underestimate me.
It was safer too.
Because Patricia and Richard did not love success unless Brittany had it.
They did not celebrate money unless they could control it.
They did not respect boundaries unless those boundaries protected them from accountability.
