My daughter-in-law sneered at my son as he entered the courtroom, but when the judge saw me walk in behind him, he stopped and muttered in disbelief, «Why are you here?» The entire room fell silent while my daughter-in-law and her arrogant family looked at each other in a panic.
I want to know how far it has reached. The noise in the courtroom died down instantly when Judge Stephen Morales entered. He sat in the main seat, his piercing eyes scanning the room.
When he looked at Michael, my son, I saw a flicker of compassion in his gaze, but then he froze, fixing his eyes on me. I felt the shock in that look, as if he were seeing a ghost from the past. I walked slowly toward the defense table.
I placed my old leather briefcase on the wooden surface. The sharp thud echoed like a declaration of war. I pulled out the chair and sat next to Michael, feeling my son’s trembling hand under mine.
The room was plunged into silence. The only sound was the scratching of the clerk’s pen on paper. Judge Morales leaned forward, his eyes wide, his usual solemnity gone.
His lips moved and he said almost in a whisper, «Why did you come here?» That question was like a blast of cold wind sweeping through the room. Jessica frowned, looking at me with suspicion. Her parents whispered to each other, their eyes full of distrust.
Michael lifted his head, his gaze confused but holding a fragile spark of hope. Seeing him like that, my heart ached. He didn’t know.
No one in that room knew that I wasn’t just a mother. I had been someone else, someone that everyone in Chicago knew and called by name. Less than an hour before, the Chicago sky was gray and heavy.
I stood by the car, carefully helping Michael with each step. His steps were shaky, not just because of the wooden crutch bearing his weight, but also because of the cold stares of the crowd that fell upon us. The bells of the church in the nearby downtown square rang, each mournful toll hitting my chest, announcing a grim day.
I clutched the old leather briefcase in my hands, its worn edges reminding me of the years gone by. It didn’t just hold papers; it held the honor, the future, and the faint hope of my family. In front of the imposing courthouse steps, a small crowd had gathered: some curious neighbors, some reporters with cameras ready.
They murmured, a buzz like a restless swarm. «It’s the Villasenor divorce,» someone whispered. «They say it’s really nasty.»
«Poor son.» I heard it with a sinking heart, but I kept my face cold, not showing any weakness. Then a luxury car pulled up sharply behind us.
The door opened and Jessica got out. She wore a red Gucci dress, the color of defiance, as if screaming to the world that she was the winner. Dark sunglasses covered half her face, but they couldn’t hide the arrogant smile on her lips.
Her parents and her brother followed her, heads held high, walking as if they already had victory in their hands. Seeing them made my stomach turn. They didn’t know what Michael and I had been through: the sleepless nights, the days of struggle to keep this home.
I motioned for Michael to walk ahead, and I followed him silently. My son, once a strong man, now leaned on crutches, his back hunched as if carrying the weight of the world. Every step he took was like a knife in my heart.
I wanted to scream, to protect him from those pitying looks, but I could only grip the briefcase tighter and walk with a forced calm. Inside the courtroom, the air was thick, the smell of old wood mixing with tension. Jessica was already sitting on the defendant’s bench, legs crossed, her bright red heels tapping the floor, each tap-tap like a taunt.
When Michael struggled in, she smiled contemptuously and leaned into her mother’s ear, just loud enough for everyone to hear, «Look, he’s nothing but a crippled old man.» I felt my blood boil, but I bit my lip to keep the rage from exploding.
Michael lowered his head, his chest heaving. He sat silently in the wooden chair for the plaintiff, his hands gripping his crutches as if they were his last support. Seeing my son like this tore my heart apart.
He was the child I had sacrificed my whole life for, the one who had promised to build us a home where no one could ever kick us out. And now he was here, humiliated by the same woman who claimed to love him.
Jessica’s lawyer, Jennifer Rivers, stood up and placed a thick stack of papers on the table. Her arrogant voice echoed through the room. «We will demonstrate that my client’s husband, Michael Villasenor, is no longer capable of fulfilling his duties as a husband and a father.»
Every word was like a hammer blow to my chest. I wanted to stand up, to scream that they were lying, that Michael was still a father. The dense air of the courtroom took me back to days past.
Years ago, when the golden sun still bathed the stone streets, my small family knew peaceful days. Our little house, though humble, was always filled with laughter. I remember those weekend afternoons when Michael was seven, running through the yard with an old ball in his hand, singing at the top of his lungs the pop songs I taught him.
My husband, David, was still a family man then, sitting on the porch smoking, watching his son play with a serene smile. But that peace, I later discovered, was nothing more than a fleeting dream.
One night, when the aroma of the pot roast I had prepared still lingered in the kitchen, David put down his knife and fork, his gaze icy. «Linda,» he said in a monotone voice, as if reading an announcement, «I’m leaving. I have another life.»
I stood there, spoon in hand, stunned, as if I’d been slapped. He didn’t look at me; he just got up, took the suitcase he already had packed, and walked out the door. A gleaming car was waiting for him outside. Inside, under the streetlight, I could barely make out a woman, a wealthy widow, who I later learned had stolen the man of my life from me.
Michael, who was ten at the time, stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide open, watching his father’s figure disappear. The sound of the engine fading away left a silence that broke my soul.
That night, after clearing the table as if nothing had happened, I went into Michael’s room. The boy was huddled under the covers, his shoulders trembling with muffled sobs. I sat beside him.
I drew him into my arms, but I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. I told myself I had to be a rock, strong so my son would have something to hold on to.
«Mom, why did Dad leave?» he asked in a broken voice.
I just hugged him tighter and whispered, «I don’t know, son, but I promise you that you and I will always be together.» I kept that promise with all my heart. Although, every night when he slept, I would be alone in the kitchen, staring at the clean plates with a pain that pierced through me.
The following years were a relentless cycle. In the mornings, I’d get up early, make breakfast for Michael, and take him to school on my old bicycle. During the day, I worked as an office clerk, my eyes fixed on the keyboard, checking numbers, trying to keep my boss from noticing the dark circles from my sleepless nights.
At night, while Michael did his homework, I would sit at the dining room table, hunched over the accounting books of some neighborhood stores. There were nights of heavy rain when Michael and I shared a broken umbrella, walking through flooded streets to get home.
With my clothes soaked and the cold chilling my bones, I still squeezed my son’s hand and smiled at him. «We’re stronger than this rain, aren’t we?» Michael would nod, and his smile was the only light in those dark days.
I never told Michael about the nights I didn’t sleep, thinking about tuition, rent, or medicine. Once, when he had a fever, I had to search pharmacies in the middle of the night with only a few coins in my pocket.
At the counter, I counted the money one by one, my heart sinking at the thought of having to choose between my son’s medicine or the next day’s food. But I didn’t give up. Every time I looked at Michael, I told myself I couldn’t fall because he was the reason for my existence.
The day Michael received his acceptance letter for electrical engineering, I stood still in the kitchen, the paper in my hand, crying uncontrollably. It was the first time in years I cried with happiness, but the joy soon turned to worry. College was not something I could easily afford.
Silently, I took my wedding ring, the last memory of a broken marriage, from the old wooden chest. It was the only thing of value left in the house. I took it to the pawn shop, and watching the owner weigh the ring squeezed my soul.
