“Yes, honey. She’s showering.
She’ll be down for breakfast soon,” I said.
Sure enough, shortly after, the small sound of footsteps came down the stairs. Zariah ran toward us in her neat private-school uniform, her smile bright—a stark contrast to the atmosphere of the morning.
“Good morning, Mommy and Daddy.”
She kissed me on the cheek and headed to Tmaine. He finally put down his phone and forced a slight smile.
“Good morning, princess.
Finish your food. Daddy will take you to school.”
“Wow, I’m going with Daddy!” Zariah exclaimed with joy.
I exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. At least in front of Zariah, Tmaine made an effort to act warm.
This brief breakfast hour was the only family time we had left.
As soon as Zariah finished eating, Tmaine stood up, grabbed his briefcase, kissed her on the forehead, and headed to the front door. As always, he walked past me as if I wasn’t there. No goodbye.
No kiss. Not even a glance.
Only the roar of his luxury car pulling away left me standing alone in the vastness of the house.
I spent the rest of the morning in routine—clearing the table, washing dishes, doing laundry, tidying rooms—with the efficiency of someone trying to keep a crumbling wall from falling. I always strove to keep the house perfect, because a stupid part of me still believed that if the floors were clean enough, if the food was delicious enough, if I stayed quiet enough, the old Tmaine would return.
But the old Tmaine had left a long time ago.
At noon, I picked Zariah up from school, my favorite time of day.
I loved listening to her chatter about her friends, her art class, or what she’d found in her lunchbox.
“Mommy, today I got five gold stars from the teacher. I answered the question right,” Zariah chirped, holding my hand.
“Wow, my daughter is so smart,” I said sincerely, pinching her little nose.
When we arrived home and I was helping her take off her shoes, I heard the sound of a motorcycle pulling up near the front door. A uniformed courier called out my name.
“Nyala, a package for you.”
I frowned.
I hadn’t ordered anything. I opened the door and accepted a large, thick brown envelope. There was no sender name—only the logo of a law firm in the upper right corner.
My heart began to beat uncomfortably.
“Who is it, Mommy?” Zariah asked, trailing behind me.
“I don’t know, princess.
It’s probably just junk mail. Go change, and then we’ll have lunch,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
After she ran to her room, I sat on the living-room sofa. My hands trembled as I tore open the envelope.
Inside was a thick stack of papers.
The first sentence on the top page made me gasp for air.
Petition for dissolution of marriage.
My world seemed to stop. My ears rang as if someone had slammed a door inside my skull. I reread the words, hoping my eyes had deceived me.
Plaintiff: Tmaine.
Defendant: Nyala.
Reason for the suit: The wife has totally failed in the fulfillment of her marital duties.
Failed.
The word made my stomach turn.
I had dedicated my entire life to that house. I’d given up my career at Tmaine’s request. I took care of Zariah.
I made sure his shirts were spotless every morning.
What did he mean, failed?
I kept reading, and my eyes went out of focus as the demands came into view. They were cruel. Tmaine wasn’t just asking for a divorce—he was requesting full custody of Zariah, alleging I was emotionally unstable and incapable of raising a child properly.
And most devastating of all, he demanded the totality of the marital assets, including the house we lived in, arguing that I hadn’t contributed financially and that every asset was solely the result of his efforts.
I collapsed onto the cold hardwood floor, papers scattering around me.
So that was why he’d been so cold for months.
This wasn’t a mood.
This was a plan, hatched in secret behind my back.
The front door opened. Tmaine returned from work unusually early. He stood in the doorway, looked at me slumped on the floor, then looked at the scattered papers.
His expression was cold, and there wasn’t a shred of guilt.
“Honey… what does this mean?” My voice trembled as tears gathered.
Tmaine took off his shoes in silence, walked over, loosened his tie.
He didn’t deny it. He didn’t explain. He simply said, flat and cold, “It is exactly what you read.
I don’t want to live with you anymore, Nyala. You have failed—failed as a wife and as a mother.”
“Failed?” I moaned, disbelief cracking my voice. “I have taken care of this house and raised Zariah.”
“Taken care of the house?” Tmaine scoffed.
“The only thing you’ve done is spend my money. Zariah needs a better mother—a competent one—not someone who only knows how to cry and complain like you.”
“But… all the property, this house… and Zariah—honey, you can’t take them from me.”
I heard myself scream, high and hysterical, because I couldn’t breathe around the terror.
Tmaine crouched down, his face hard, his eyes filled with a hatred I’d never seen before.
“I can and I will,” he said. “My lawyer has all the evidence gathered.
You won’t get anything, Nyala. You will leave this house without a single dollar.”
He stood, smoothed his suit, and glanced toward the stairs, making sure Zariah couldn’t hear.
“And get ready,” he added, grinning a chilling smile that froze my blood. “My lawyer says that even your own daughter will testify in court about how incompetent you are as a mother.”
I froze.
My heart shattered into pieces.
Tmaine didn’t just want to divorce me.
He wanted to destroy me completely.
I didn’t sleep that night.
After the confrontation, Tmaine moved into the guest room and locked the door as if I were a threat. I spent the night in Zariah’s room, sitting in the chair by her bed, watching her peaceful face as she slept.
My tears didn’t stop.
How could Tmaine say Zariah would testify against me? Zariah was everything to me.
What would they have told my little girl? That thought tormented me more than any accusation.
The next morning, Tmaine acted as if nothing had happened. He woke Zariah up, prepared her uniform, and took her to school.
He didn’t speak a word to me.
When Zariah asked why my eyes were puffy, he answered with indifference.
“Mommy isn’t feeling very well, princess.”
After they left, true terror took hold of me. I had to fight. I couldn’t give up on Zariah so easily.
I grabbed my phone and searched for renowned divorce lawyers in the city.
But reality hit hard.
Lawyers needed money—retainers, consultation fees—and I had none. For years, Tmaine had given me a monthly allowance budgeted exactly for groceries and Zariah’s school expenses. There was no room to save anything.
My only hope was our joint account—the one I believed was our family emergency fund.
With trembling hands, I opened the banking app and entered the password, my heart hammering.
When the balance appeared, my legs nearly gave out.
Zero.
The account sat at $0.
It couldn’t be. There should have been hundreds of thousands in there. I refreshed again and again, begging for a system error, but the number stared back at me like a verdict.
I opened the transaction history, and my eyes widened in horror.
For the last six months, Tmaine had been systematically withdrawing large amounts and transferring them to another account I didn’t know.
The last withdrawal had been made three days ago, emptying what was left.
Tmaine hadn’t just planned a divorce.
He had crippled me financially so I couldn’t fight back.
I cried in despair. How was I supposed to hire a lawyer without a dollar? I remembered my wedding jewelry and ran to my room, yanking open my jewelry box.
It was empty.
Only a few imitation trinkets remained.
Tmaine had taken even my heirlooms.
In desperation, I remembered an old friend who worked at a legal aid agency.
I called her and told her everything, words tumbling out between sobs. She felt pity but couldn’t do much beyond giving me a name.
“His name is Attorney Abernathy,” she said. “He has a small office on the second floor of an old strip mall.
He isn’t expensive, but he’s honest and dedicated. Go see him. Explain your situation.
Maybe he can help.”
I had no other choice.
With the little cash left in my purse, I hailed a cab and went to the address she gave me. Attorney Abernathy’s office was exactly as described—small, modest, and tucked into a tired building with peeling paint.
Attorney Abernathy was a middle-aged Black man with thick glasses and a calm demeanor. He listened to my story without interrupting, only nodding occasionally, taking notes like he was trying to catch every falling thread.
When I finished, he exhaled a long sigh.
“Nyala, this is going to be an uphill battle,” he said quietly.
“Your husband has prepared this very thoroughly. He doesn’t just want a divorce. He wants to destroy you.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“But I don’t care about the properties. I just want Zariah. Please help me.
I don’t have money now, but I will pay you. I’ll pay in installments. I’ll do anything.”
He studied me for a moment.
“Let’s leave the money issue for later,” he said.
“What matters now is speed. This lawsuit has already been filed. We have to prepare a response immediately.”
He asked me to wait, left the room, and returned with a folder full of photocopies—documents filed by Tmaine’s side.
“Your husband’s lawyer is Attorney Cromwell,” Abernathy said.
“He’s known for being sharp—and for not hesitating to use dirty tactics.”
Then he opened the folder.
The first page was photographs.
I went cold when I saw them—shots of my kitchen with dirty dishes piled up, my living room cluttered with toys, dirty clothes stacked in a laundry basket.
“But this is unfair,” I protested. “These are photos he took when I was sick. I had a high fever for three days, and Tmaine didn’t want to help at all.
He took them on purpose.”
“Nyala, I’m afraid this is being used to make you look like a lazy person who doesn’t maintain the house,” Abernathy said, bitterness flickering across his calm.
Credit card statements.
My stomach lurched as I saw charges for luxury handbags, jewelry, dinners at expensive restaurants—things I had never bought.
“That’s not me,” I said, voice cracking. “I didn’t buy these things.”
“Was there an additional card in your name?” he asked.
“Yes,” I admitted. “Tmaine managed it.
He told me to use it if I needed to, but he took it often, saying his main card had exceeded the limit.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered, dizzy with it. “He set me up.”
Every small “kindness” from Tmaine suddenly looked like part of a trap.
Then Attorney Abernathy stopped at a thick document toward the end.
“And this is the most damaging thing, Nyala.”
“What is it?”
“It is the testimony of an expert witness. A child psychologist.”
He handed me the report.
It was written in cold clinical terms, stating that the psychologist had conducted covert observations of my interactions with Zariah. The conclusion was brutal: I was emotionally unstable, I neglected my daughter’s needs, and I was detrimental to her psychological development.
It recommended full custody for Tmaine for the mental health of the child.
“This makes no sense,” I whispered. “When was this observation done?
I never met a psychologist.”
“According to this report,” Abernathy explained, “the observation was conducted in public places—at the park, at the mall, and when you picked up your daughter from school.”
“That’s crazy,” I said, shaking. “Zariah always seemed happy with me. This is defamation.
Who is this psychologist?”
He flipped the cover.
“Her name is Dr. Valencia,” he said. “Her credentials are all here.
She seems very professional and convincing.”
Then he looked at me, serious.
“Nyala, do you know this woman?”
I shook my head, bewildered, tears spilling again.
“No. I’ve never seen her in my life.”
Living under the same roof with the man who planned to destroy me became a silent hell. Tmaine didn’t leave the house; he simply moved into the guest room.
What used to feel like home now felt like a frozen battlefield, emotional landmines hidden in every corner.
I had to live with my enemy, see him every morning, and pretend everything was normal in front of Zariah.
In front of our child, Tmaine executed his strategy perfectly. He became the best father in the world. He started coming home early again, something he hadn’t done in months.
He brought expensive gifts, and one night he came back with a big box printed with a cartoon princess.
“This is your new tablet, Zariah,” Tmaine said, hugging her. “It’s much better than the old one. It has a better camera, and Daddy installed lots of games for you.”
Zariah’s eyes shone.
“Wow!
Thanks, Daddy!”
I stood there folding laundry in the living room, my throat tight. I knew what he was doing.
He was buying my daughter’s loyalty.
I couldn’t compete. I didn’t have a dollar to buy her anything.
“You see, princess,” Tmaine said, smirking at me while he turned on the tablet, “when you live with Daddy later, you’ll be able to buy a new toy every week—unlike someone who only knows how to fold clothes.”
My hands stopped.
A knot formed in my chest, and I swallowed my rage because if I exploded, it would only “prove” his claim that I was emotionally unstable.
So I folded in silence, head bowed, letting his poison fill the room.
The terror continued daily. If I prepared dinner, Tmaine came in, tasted the food, and said in front of Zariah, “Honey, the soup is a little salty again.”
“It’s okay,” he’d add, sliding the knife deeper with a smile. “Tomorrow, we’ll order takeout.”
If I sat down to help Zariah with homework, Tmaine interrupted.
“Let me do it.
The way Mommy teaches you is too complicated. You’re going to get confused.”
I felt smaller and smaller, more invisible in my own home. I began to doubt myself.
Did I really cook badly? Was I truly incapable of teaching my daughter?
Tmaine played his role too well, making me look like an inept woman.
Zariah, trapped in the middle, began to show confusion. It was clear she loved me, but she also enjoyed the attention and gifts from her father.
Sometimes she clung to me like she needed protection, but other times she seemed uncomfortable—especially after Tmaine whispered something to her.
One night, I couldn’t sleep. I walked quietly to Zariah’s room to make sure she was okay, and I opened the door a crack. She was sleeping deeply.
On her desk was the new tablet.
But as I leaned in to tuck her blanket, I saw her small hand clutching something under her pillow.
It wasn’t her favorite teddy bear.
My heart skipped.
It was her old tablet—the cheap one, the screen cracked in several places, the one I always told her not to use because I feared the glass might cut her.
I frowned. Why was she keeping it? Why hide it under the pillow when the new tablet sat on her desk?
I didn’t understand.
I told myself it was childish attachment, a child’s stubborn love for an old toy.
I didn’t know that broken tablet held a secret that was going to change everything.
The climax came a few days later.
I was waiting for Zariah to return from school. I’d promised to bake her favorite chocolate cake, but an hour passed after dismissal time and she didn’t arrive.
I called the school. They told me Zariah had been picked up by Tmaine.
My heart sank.
Tmaine hadn’t told me anything.
I called him again and again. No answer.
Two hours passed. Three hours passed.
I paced the living room, almost sick with worry, tears hot in my eyes. It wasn’t until nine at night that I finally heard Tmaine’s car.
Zariah came in laughing, carrying a large bag full of things from an amusement park. Behind her, Tmaine walked calmly with a smirk.
“Where have you been?” I demanded, voice shaking with rage and fear.
“Why did you take Zariah without telling me? I was dying of worry.”
“Daddy took me to Wonderland Park, Mommy. It was so much fun!” Zariah exclaimed.
Tmaine looked at me coldly.
“So what?
I’m her father. I have the right to take my own daughter. Besides, you aren’t doing anything at home.”
“But you should have told me.”
“Why?” he snapped.
“So you could ruin our fun with your drama?”
That was when I smelled it.
A woman’s perfume—soft, unfamiliar—clung to Tmaine’s shirt. It wasn’t mine, and it wasn’t his usual cologne.
His eyes followed my gaze. He knew I’d smelled it.
He didn’t flinch.
Instead, he smiled.
He waited until Zariah ran to her room to put away her toys, then approached me.
His face came close, his voice low and venomous.
“Did you notice?” he hissed. “Did you really think I was going to live forever with a woman as boring as you? You are nothing compared to her.”
I stepped back, gasping.
There was another woman.
All the accusations, the cruelty, the plan—it wasn’t just greed.
It was a way to erase me so he could replace me.
“Who is she?” I whispered.
“None of your business,” he said, satisfied.
“She is successful. Intelligent. She knows how to please a man—unlike you.”
That night, Zariah came to my room.
“Mommy, why are you crying?”
I wiped my tears quickly.
“I’m okay, princess.
My head just hurts a little.”
Zariah studied me with a look I couldn’t decode.
“Are you really sick, Mommy? Daddy says that since you are sick, you are often sad and angry. Daddy said that if I go live with him later, Mommy will be able to rest and get better.”
My heart shattered all over again.
Tmaine had been injecting poison into my child’s mind—packaging abandonment as kindness.
I hugged Zariah tight.
“Zariah, listen to me.
I am not sick. I just love you so much. I promise I won’t get angry anymore.”
But the damage was already done.
I saw hesitation in her eyes.
From the doorway, where he’d been listening, Tmaine only sneered in the darkness. He walked past me, tapped my shoulder like he was offering sympathy.
“Enjoy your time,” he whispered, mocking. “Soon she won’t even want to call you Mom.”
The mediation hearing was a cruel joke.
We sat in a small, stuffy room while a court-appointed mediator tried to find middle ground. Attorney Abernathy spoke calmly.
“Tmaine, Nyala doesn’t ask for much. She only wants custody of Zariah, or at least shared custody.
Regarding property, we can talk about it.”
Before he could finish, Attorney Cromwell—well dressed and expensive—cut him off.
“There is nothing to talk about,” Cromwell said harshly, slamming his file onto the table. “Our client’s position is clear. Nyala is the failed party in this marriage.
It has been proven she has failed in maintaining the home and raising the child. Our client demands full custody for Zariah’s future.”
Tmaine sat beside him with a blank face, like he was the victim.
“I only want the best for my daughter,” he said with fake sadness. “Taking her mother away is best for her.”
My hands shook.
Cromwell chuckled.
“Nyala, if you keep insisting, we will take this to trial.
And I assure you that all the evidence we have will humiliate you—photos, credit card statements, expert testimony. You had better sign this agreement. Our client is being benevolent by allowing you to leave the house without any countersuit.”
“Leave my house with nothing,” he finished, “and without Zariah.”
“Are you crazy?” I screamed.
The mediator tried to intervene, but Tmaine and his lawyer were inflexible.
The mediation broke down completely.
As we left, Attorney Abernathy patted my shoulder.
“Stay strong, Nyala,” he said. “The real fight begins now.”
The first day of trial arrived with a knot in my stomach. Attorney Abernathy reminded me to keep calm at all costs.
The courtroom was cold and intimidating—high wooden walls, heavy chairs, the judge’s gavel like a weapon waiting to fall.
Tmaine sat opposite, confident beside Attorney Cromwell.
Cromwell went first. He spoke fluently, loud and sure, presenting his version of the facts. He showed the photos of the messy house and called me lazy and dirty.
He showed the credit card statements and called me wasteful and financially irresponsible.
“Your honor,” he said dramatically, “while my client, Mr. Tmaine, worked hard to earn money, his wife was at home wasting it and neglecting her daughter and her home.”
I wanted to scream that it was a lie, that Tmaine had set me up, that he’d used the card, that he’d taken the photos when I was sick. But all I could do was clasp my hands under the table.
Attorney Abernathy held my gaze, steadying me.
When it was his turn, he tried to refute the evidence.
He explained the photos were out of context. He explained the charges were not mine, that Tmaine had access.
But it sounded weak.
It was my word against the “physical evidence” Cromwell paraded like trophies.
The judge took notes, expression unreadable.
Then came the moment I feared most.
“The plaintiff calls his expert witness,” Cromwell announced. “Dr.
Valencia, child psychologist.”
The courtroom door opened.
A woman entered—beautiful, elegant, hair pulled back neatly, professional blazer, confident stride. She didn’t look like a villain. She looked credible.
As she took the oath, the same perfume hit me—the same scent I’d smelled on Tmaine’s shirt that night.
My heart stopped.
It was her.
Tmaine’s mistress.
And she was posing as a child psychologist.
Valencia sat in the witness box and spoke calmly, diction clean, using psychological terms that sounded impressive.
“Yes, your honor,” she testified, answering Cromwell’s questions. “I conducted observations of the natural behavior of Mrs. Nyala and her daughter Zariah over the last three months.”
“And what were your findings, doctor?”
“My findings were very concerning,” Valencia said, flipping her notes.
“I found a pattern of behavior in Mrs. Nyala that tends to be inconsistent and emotionally volatile. There are signs of significant emotional distress.”
Then she detailed the lies one by one, turning ordinary moments into weapons.
“First observation: At a shopping mall, Mrs.
Nyala pulled Zariah forcefully, speaking loudly, which made Zariah cry in fear in front of people. This shows a low capacity for emotional regulation.”
I closed my eyes, remembering the real day—Zariah lunging toward the wrong escalator, my body moving on instinct, my voice rising in shock.
“Zariah, be careful!”
I hadn’t been angry.
I’d been terrified.
Valencia continued.
“Second observation: In a park, Mrs. Nyala seemed more absorbed in her phone, ignoring Zariah, who was playing alone.
When Zariah fell, Mrs. Nyala didn’t notice immediately. When she did, her reaction was exaggerated and tended toward hysteria, further traumatizing Zariah.”
Another lie.
I remembered texting the grocery list Tmaine had asked for.
Zariah had tripped. I’d run to her, hugged her, consoled her. That wasn’t hysteria.
It was concern.
“My conclusion,” Valencia said, staring at the judge, “is that Mrs.
Nyala does not have the stable emotional capacity to raise a seven-year-old girl. There are strong signs of parentification syndrome where Mrs. Nyala subconsciously projects her own unhappiness and emotional problems onto the child.
For Zariah’s mental health, I strongly recommend full custody for the father, Mr. Tmaine, who is the more stable figure.”
The room fell silent.
Valencia’s testimony was powerful—scientific-sounding, destructive.
I cried silently.
“It’s a lie,” I whispered to Attorney Abernathy. “It’s all a lie.
She’s Tmaine’s mistress. It’s her.”
“Calm down,” he murmured tensely. “Don’t react.
That’s what they want.”
He stood for cross-examination, tried to poke holes.
“Dr. Valencia, are you sure you can make such a serious diagnosis based solely on distant observations?”
Valencia smiled slightly.
“On the contrary, counselor. Natural observations without the subject being aware are the most accurate.
There is no manipulation. It is pure behavior.”
“You were paid by Mr. Tmaine for this testimony, isn’t that right?”
“I was paid for my professional services,” she retorted, “not for my conclusions.
My conclusions are objective and based on data from the field.”
Abernathy hit a wall.
Valencia dodged too well.
The trial adjourned for the day. I left with trembling legs, feeling destroyed. In the lobby, I saw Tmaine nod slightly to Valencia, a look of satisfaction between them.
I leaned against the wall and sobbed.
“We lost,” I whispered.
“They have everything.”
Attorney Abernathy stared after them, eyes narrowed.
“Not yet,” he said quietly. “Something is wrong. The way she looks at him when she thinks no one sees—that’s not the way a professional psychologist looks at a client.
We have to find out who she really is.”
A few days before the next hearing, Abernathy called me to his office. His face looked tired; the stack of papers on his desk looked thicker than before.
“Nyala,” he said bluntly, “I tried to trace the woman’s background. The result is different from what we expected.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her credentials are clean.
Too clean,” he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “She’s registered with the psychological association. She has a practice clinic.
All the documentation is perfect. Either she’s a real psychologist that Tmaine hired to lie for money, or Tmaine forged an entire identity very cleanly. We can’t attack her by claiming she’s fake.
The court would dismiss it.”
The brief hope I’d held vanished.
“So we can’t prove she’s lying.”
“No,” he said. “We can’t prove she isn’t a psychologist. The only way is to refute her testimony.
And that means you have to testify.”
He looked me in the eye.
“You must tell your whole side—about the photos, the credit cards, Tmaine’s behavior—and most importantly, you must not get emotionally upset. Cromwell will provoke you. He wants you to look hysterical, exactly as Valencia described.”
I swallowed.
“I will do it,” I said.
“I will try.”
The day arrived.
It was my turn on the witness stand. After I was sworn in, Attorney Abernathy began gently, guiding me to describe my life as a housewife—my routine from dawn until late at night, the work nobody counted.
Then he asked about the photos.
“Nyala, can you explain the context?”
“Yes,” I said carefully. “Those photos were taken by Tmaine about two months ago.
I was severely ill with a high fever for three days. I could barely get out of bed. I asked him to take care of the household, but he said he was too busy with work, so the house got messy.
I didn’t have the energy to clean.”
“And the credit card statements?”
“It was an additional card in my name, but Tmaine had it more frequently. He said his main card often reached the limit with business matters. I believed him.
I never bought those luxury bags or that jewelry. I didn’t know about those charges until I saw them in the lawsuit documents.”
I spoke with honesty. I saw some people in the gallery whisper.
Some looked at me with sympathy.
But the judge’s face stayed unreadable.
Then it was Cromwell’s turn.
He stood, smoothed his tie, and approached with a sneer.
“Nyala,” he began in a sickly sweet tone, “so you mean to say your husband—Mr. Tmaine, who works hard and brings money home—set you up on purpose? Is that it?”
“I didn’t say that,” I stammered.
“I just said what happened.”
“But that’s what you’re implying,” he pressed. “The husband takes photos. The husband uses the credit card.
Everything is the husband’s fault. You’re not to blame for anything. Are you perfect?”
“Of course not,” I said, voice tightening.
“I’m not perfect, but I’m not a failure.”
“Not a failure?” Cromwell scoffed. “You say you were sick when those photos were taken. Do you have a medical report proving you were gravely ill for three days?”
“I didn’t go to the hospital,” I admitted.
“I took medicine from the pharmacy. I thought I would recover.”
“So there is no proof,” he snapped. “Just your word against photographic evidence.”
He swung to the credit cards.
“You say your husband used them.
But the card is in your name. Did you inform the bank that the card was being misused?”
“No.”
“Did you ever reprimand your husband?”
“You said nothing,” he said, voice rising. “Doesn’t that prove you are negligent and financially irresponsible?
Or does it mean you approved all purchases?”
“I trusted him,” I said, the words trembling. “He was my husband.”
“Blind trust,” Cromwell snapped. “A trust that ruined the family finances, and now you blame your husband.”
“I am not blaming—”
“Enough.”
He raised a hand, returned to his table, and lifted a large printed photo.
“Your honor,” he said, “I request permission to present exhibit P12.”
My eyes widened.
It was a photo of me in my bedroom weeks before the divorce papers arrived—hair disheveled, crying and screaming.
“Mrs.
Nyala, can you explain this photo?” Cromwell asked, triumphant.
My body shook. Tears surged.
“Isn’t this proof of what Dr. Valencia said?” he pressed.
“Volatile emotions. Hysteria. Is this the face of a competent mother?”
“You don’t understand,” I wailed.
“That night… Tmaine came home. He called me useless. He said I was a burden.
He said I didn’t deserve to be Zariah’s mother. He provoked me.”
“So you admit it,” Cromwell cut in without mercy. “You admit you screamed hysterically.
You admit you lost control. You are emotionally volatile—exactly as Dr. Valencia described, right?”
“No!”
I stood up, voice breaking.
“He set me up!” I cried.
“He took that photo in secret after hurting me. He is a devil!”
The judge’s gavel struck hard.
“Witness, calm down. Sit down.”
I collapsed back into the chair, sobbing, shoulders shaking.
Destroyed.
I had behaved exactly as they wanted.
I looked hysterical. I looked unstable. I looked like the failed mother they’d fabricated.
I glanced toward Tmaine’s side.
He had his head bowed, wearing a fake grimace of sadness, as if he were the one harmed by my instability. Cromwell smiled smugly.
The judge shook his head slowly.
His expression finally revealed it: he had already taken a side.
That day ended in ruin for me. Abernathy tried to console me, but I felt numb.
“It’s over,” I whispered.
“It’s over, attorney.”
That night was the longest of my life. The sentencing hearing would be the next day. I knew I was going to lose.
I was going to lose Zariah.
I went into her room. She was already asleep. Tmaine wasn’t home—probably celebrating his victory with Valencia.
I sat at the foot of the bed, stroking Zariah’s hair.
Tears fell silently onto her cheek and she stirred.
“Mommy?” she murmured, half asleep.
“Shh,” I whispered. “Go back to sleep, princess.”
I hugged her tight, maybe the last hug as a full mother.
“I want you to know, whatever happens tomorrow, Mommy loves you very much. Always.”
Zariah hugged me back.
“I love you too, Mommy.”
When I eased out of the hug, I saw it again—the corner of the old cracked tablet sticking out from under her pillow.
Even sleeping, she clutched it tight.
I still didn’t understand why she was obsessed with that broken thing. That night, I was too destroyed to think deeper. I kissed her forehead and left to face the end of my world.
The courtroom felt colder than usual the next morning.
The air was heavy, suffocating. I sat rigid in my chair, eyes puffy and empty, having not slept all night.
Beside me, Attorney Abernathy stared ahead, somber.
Across the room, Tmaine looked fresh and confident in a new suit. He exchanged quiet jokes with Cromwell.
Victory was practically sitting on his lap.
In the gallery, I saw Valencia—elegant in a cream-colored dress—watching me with a barely visible smile.
The judge entered. The room fell silent.
My heart beat so hard it hurt.
“In the matter of the divorce petition,” the judge began formally, “today’s subject is the reading of the verdict. But before that, the court requests closing arguments.”
Cromwell stood first, summarizing his “victory” skillfully.
“Your honor,” he said loudly, “during this trial we have seen irrefutable evidence: photographs showing Mrs.
Nyala’s neglect of household tasks, financial proof showing irresponsibility, and most importantly, the testimony of the eminent child psychologist, Dr. Valencia, who objectively and scientifically presented the defendant’s emotional instability.”
He gestured toward me.
“We even witnessed Mrs. Nyala’s hysterical conduct in this courtroom during the last trial, supporting Dr.
Valencia’s diagnosis. On the other hand, we have Mr. Tmaine—financially successful, emotionally stable, genuinely concerned for his daughter’s future.
Your honor, the choice is clear. This is not about punishing the wife—it is about saving the child. For Zariah’s best interest, grant full custody to Mr.
Tmaine and approve his request for division of assets.”
He sat down with a smug smile.
Then Abernathy rose, slow and steady.
“Your honor,” he began, voice soft but firm, “what we have witnessed here is not proof. It is character assassination—planned defamation.”
“Photos can lie,” he continued. “You can take a photo of the best chef’s kitchen in the wrong moment and make it look dirty.
Statements can be manipulated, especially when one party has total financial control and the trust of the other. And expert testimony—an expert who only observed from a distance and drew radical conclusions from fragments taken out of context—should not outweigh the deep maternal love a mother has accumulated over seven years.”
He looked directly at Tmaine.
“Your honor, we are not saving a girl. We are witnessing a greedy husband try to get rid of his wife, steal her assets, and cruelly take away the only thing most precious to her—her daughter.
Nyala is a good mother. She is not perfect—no mother is—but she has dedicated her life to Zariah. Do not allow this well-woven defamation to destroy that bond.
I beg you to judge with conscience.”
He sat down.
The room was silent.
His argument was excellent—emotional—but I knew it wasn’t enough. Abernathy’s words were built on belief. Cromwell’s case was built on paper, photos, and “expert testimony.”
In the eyes of the law, the winner seemed obvious.
The judge cleared his throat, put on his glasses, and opened the thick file.
Having reviewed all documents, heard all testimonies, and considered all evidence, he began with an expressionless tone.
“The court notes that the plaintiff, Mr.
Tmaine, has been successful in presenting significant evidence.”
My head lowered. My eyes closed.
“First,” the judge continued, “the visual evidence—the photographs—demonstrated negligence by the defendant, Mrs. Nyala, in household management.
Second, financial evidence demonstrated a considerable spending imbalance on the credit card in the defendant’s name. And most damaging—”
His voice sounded definitive.
“—is the testimony of the expert witness, Dr. Valencia, regarding Mrs.
Nyala’s emotional state. This testimony was unfortunately reinforced by the defendant’s own conduct in the last trial, providing the court a troubling image of the psychological environment for the child’s growth.”
It was over.
I felt Tmaine’s gaze on me and caught the cruel corner of his smile. Valencia sat straighter, ready to applaud.
“With all considerations mentioned above,” the judge said, “and especially for the best interest and mental health of the minor, Zariah—”
The judge raised his gavel.
I shut my eyes, ready to hear the sentence that would destroy my life.
“The court rules—”
“Stop.”
The voice was small, but it sliced through the silence.
Sharp.
Clear.
Everyone turned toward the sound.
In the slightly open door at the back stood Zariah. She was alone, still in her school uniform. Somehow, she had snuck in.
Tmaine’s face shifted from arrogance to shock and pure panic.
“Zariah!” he shouted.
“What are you doing here? Get out of here! Guard—how can a child enter?”
But Zariah didn’t move back.
She walked forward.
Her small steps echoed on the marble floor.
She didn’t look at me, stunned with my mouth open. She didn’t look at her father, furious and terrified.
She looked directly at the judge.
The gavel, about to fall, stopped in midair.
My heart felt like it dropped out of my chest.
“Zariah,” I whispered, disbelief thick in my throat.
Tmaine reacted fastest. His face went pale.
Terror flooded his eyes.
“Zariah,” he yelled again, voice rising without the disguise of calm. “What are you doing here? Get out!
This isn’t a playground!”
Cromwell sprang up too.
“Your honor, this is a procedural outrage. This trial is confidential. A minor should not be here.
Order your staff to remove the child.”
I was frozen, mind splintering. Part of me was horrified she was in that place. Another part trembled with fear.
What was she going to say?
Had Tmaine poisoned her completely?
Would she tell the judge she preferred her father?
The thought made me nauseous.
Then Attorney Abernathy’s voice cut through.
“Your honor,” he said firmly, “this child has come with an obvious purpose.
This is her future. We cannot ignore her.”
The judge raised a hand.
“Silence,” he ordered, voice echoing.
He stared down Tmaine and Cromwell until their protests died, then softened his gaze at Zariah.
“It’s okay, princess,” he said, more paternal now. “Why are you here?
Who brought you?”
“I came alone,” Zariah said, trembling but clear. “My auntie brought me, but I snuck in. I heard my daddy say my mommy is bad.”
Tmaine’s eyes went wide.
“Zariah, watch your words—”
“Silence, Mr.
Tmaine,” the judge snapped. “Let the child speak.”
I covered my mouth. Tears spilled.
Zariah swallowed like she was gathering courage.
“Daddy said my mommy is bad,” she continued.
“Daddy said my mommy gets very angry. Daddy said my mommy can’t take care of me.”
I shut my eyes.
This was it.
She was going to repeat every lie.
Then she said a sentence that made me open my eyes.
“But… can I show you something?”
She looked at the judge with pleading eyes.
“Something my mommy doesn’t know.”
The phrase hung in the air.
Something my mommy doesn’t know.
I frowned, confusion sparking through the dread.
Cromwell jumped up again.
“Your honor, this is absurd. A recording from a child cannot be used as evidence.
It’s an invasion of privacy recorded without permission.”
“That recording proves the lies of your expert witness,” Abernathy shot back.
The judge’s eyes narrowed, suddenly intense.
“Enough,” he said, banging the gavel. “Clerk, help this child. Connect that device to the court monitors.
Right now.”
“No!” Tmaine screamed, gripping the table edge, knuckles white. “I object. This is a setup!”
“Your objection is noted,” the judge said coldly.
“Now sit down.”
A clerk approached Zariah quickly and carefully took the cracked tablet. Moments later, the large monitors on the courtroom wall went black—then displayed the tablet’s home screen.
Tmaine covered his face.
Valencia’s body seemed to shake.
Zariah stood beside the clerk, focused like a soldier.
“This one,” she said, pointing to a video file.
The clerk clicked.
“Go ahead, princess,” the judge said. “Play the video.”
Zariah pressed play.
The screen flickered.
The angle was low, shaky, tilted—as if recorded from behind something.
A quiet laugh drifted through the audio.
“It’s our living room,” I whispered, recognizing the sofa and the large plant pot in the corner.
The video looked like it had been recorded from behind that plant pot—where Zariah often hid during hide-and-seek.
Then two figures entered the shot.
Tmaine.
And Valencia.
Not Valencia in a blazer, but Valencia in fine, comfortable loungewear, hair down. Tmaine walked in laughing, wrapped his arms around her from behind, and kissed her neck.
A muffled gasp rippled through the courtroom.
My breath caught.
So the perfume… my suspicions… everything was true.
The woman who gave false testimony to ruin me had been sleeping with my husband in my own house.
Cromwell stared at the monitor, mouth open, then turned toward Tmaine with a look of horror, like he was silently shouting, You never told me this.
In the gallery, Valencia lowered her head, trying to hide.
Then the voices came through clearly in the stunned silence.
“Are you sure your plan will work?” Valencia’s voice asked. “Your wife is so stupid.”
Tmaine laughed.
“Stupid and submissive.
She won’t suspect anything. All the money has already been transferred to your account, baby.”
My legs went weak.
Our joint account.
My emergency fund.
Transferred to Valencia.
“Oh God,” Attorney Abernathy murmured beside me, eyes locked on the screen.
The video continued. Tmaine sat on the sofa and pulled Valencia onto his lap.
“Once the verdict comes out tomorrow,” Tmaine said, “I will officially get custody of Zariah.
We’ll sell this house from hell immediately and move to Switzerland, far away from her.”
Valencia’s voice purred.
“And Zariah seems very attached to her mother.”
That sentence cut me the deepest.
I held my breath, waiting.
Tmaine laughed, disdainful.
“Oh, the kid is easy to handle. Just give her a new tablet and she’ll forget her mother. You will be her new mother—a smarter, more successful, and much sexier mother.”
Tmaine kissed Valencia passionately.
“Enough!
Turn it off!” Tmaine screamed.
He jumped from his chair and tried to rush the clerk.
“Officers, restrain him!” the judge shouted.
Two security guards moved immediately, overpowering Tmaine, bending his arms behind his back. He twisted like an animal in a trap.
“Let me go! It’s not true!
It’s manipulated!” he screamed.
“Silence him,” the judge ordered. “Continue the video. I want to see it to the end.”
The video played on, indifferent to the chaos.
Valencia spoke again.
“I’m still a little worried,” she said.
“What about my testimony as a psychologist? What if Nyala’s lawyer refutes it?”
“I already prepared. I recorded her last week when she cried hysterically.
Remember? I will provoke her again at the trial. I will insult her until she explodes.
She will scream and cry in front of the judge.”
I sobbed.
The photo.
The screaming.
He had set me up.
“Once she gets hysterical,” Tmaine continued, “your testimony will seem perfect. The judge will see for himself she’s unstable, crazy. No one will believe her.
They will believe Dr. Valencia—the professional.”
The video ended with them clinking wine glasses, laughing.
Then the screen went black.
For a few seconds, the courtroom was so silent it felt like the building itself stopped breathing. The only sounds were my sobs and Tmaine’s ragged breathing under the guards’ grip.
Everyone stared at the dark screen—judge, clerks, gallery, even Cromwell.
They had just witnessed a conspiracy: fraud, perjury, money laundering, manipulation of the court.
Someone in the gallery shouted, “There she is!
That’s the woman!”
Valencia realized she was exposed. She jumped from her seat and ran toward the back exit.
Zariah turned her head and looked at me.
Her pure eyes met mine, and I felt something break loose inside me—terror giving way to fierce, stunned love.
The judge’s face was red with rage.
He raised the gavel and slammed it down.
“Silence! Officers, close all exits.
No one leaves. Arrest that woman—Dr. Valencia—immediately.”
The room fell into controlled chaos.
The guards dragged Tmaine back to a chair. He wasn’t screaming anymore; he was gasping, eyes frantic, suit soaked with sweat.
At the back door, Valencia tried to force the exit, but it wouldn’t open—already secured by the judge’s order. A female officer intercepted her.
Valencia collapsed to the floor, her professional mask gone.
She was no longer calm and convincing.
She was just a scared woman crying hysterically.
Exactly the image she had tried to use to frame me.
“Bring her here,” the judge ordered, voice cold.
They dragged the sobbing Valencia forward and seated her in the witness stand, which now felt like the defendant’s bench.
Across the room, Attorney Cromwell looked like a melting wax doll—pale, tie crooked, eyes fixed on the papers in front of him as if the ink itself could save him.
He knew he was implicated. He might not have known about the affair, but he knew about the manipulated evidence and the testimony prepared to frame me.
I sat there, watching it like a movie, sobs fading into frozen shock. Abernathy patted my back gently, but his eyes were on the judge, waiting for the hammer.
Zariah stood next to the clerk, the calm center of the storm, watching me like she needed to confirm I was still there.
The judge took a deep breath, smoothed his robe, and looked from Tmaine to Valencia to Cromwell.
“Mr.
Tmaine,” he said quietly, voice terrifying in its calm, “that video is the property of your daughter and was recorded in your own home. Do you still insist it is manipulated?”
Tmaine lifted his head, face empty.
“She… she set me up,” he muttered.
Then, desperate, he tried again.
“That woman—Valencia—planned everything. She seduced me.”
Valencia screamed.
“Liar!
You told me to do it. You told me you would marry me. You told me you would transfer all the money to my account.
I did all this for you!”
“Silence,” the judge thundered, banging the gavel. “Your confessions are already recorded.”
He turned to Valencia.
“Miss Valencia, you sat on this stand under oath and gave false testimony. You used professional credentials to destroy a mother’s life and aid a crime.
You committed perjury before this court.”
Then he looked at Cromwell.
“Attorney Cromwell—did you know, or should you have suspected, that the evidence you presented was false? You tried to provoke the witness to fit your client’s narrative. You have disgraced this profession.
I will have the ethics committee revoke your law license.”
Cromwell bowed his head, speechless.
Finally, the judge turned to Tmaine. His gaze was so sharp it seemed to flay him alive.
“Mr. Tmaine, you entered this courtroom demanding justice.
You accused your wife of failure, accused her of instability, demanded her assets, and most heinous of all, demanded to separate a child from her mother.”
He lifted the lawsuit file.
“Let’s review. First, the accusation that the wife failed and neglected the home—proven false. The video demonstrated you conspired to defame her.”
He threw a sheet to the floor.
“Second, the accusation that the wife was financially irresponsible—proven false.
The video is a confession that you stole money from your joint account and transferred it to your mistress. This isn’t just defamation. It is theft.”
He threw another sheet.
“Third, the accusation that the wife was emotionally unstable—backed by false expert testimony—proven to be a blatant scheme.
The video proves you conspired to provoke your wife, record her in secret, and use it to deceive this court.”
He threw the third sheet.
“Your entire lawsuit,” the judge’s voice rose, “is a pile of garbage based on lies, greed, and adultery. The court dismisses entirely the divorce petition presented by Mr. Tmaine.”
The gavel struck hard.
But the judge wasn’t finished.
“The court will not stop here,” he said, gaze sweeping the room.
“Based on this irrefutable evidence, the court rules to protect the victim.”
He raised a finger.
“One: Full custody of the minor, Zariah, is granted unconditionally to her biological mother, Mrs. Nyala.”
I gasped.
The tears that poured now were relief.
He continued.
“Two: Mr. Tmaine’s divorce suit has been dismissed.
However, the court suggests Mrs. Nyala file a countersuit immediately. Mrs.
Nyala—do you wish to divorce your husband?”
Attorney Abernathy leaned in.
I lifted my trembling chin and looked at Tmaine—defeated, head bowed.
“Yes, your honor,” I said, voice firm through the shaking. “I demand a divorce right now.”
“Good,” the judge said. “The court grants the divorce to Mrs.
Nyala on the grounds of adultery and fraud by the husband. Full custody to Mrs. Nyala.”
He stood, voice ringing.
“Three: All assets in the name of Mr.
Tmaine and Ms. Valencia will be frozen immediately. The court orders a full investigation to trace all funds stolen from Mrs.
Nyala. The house currently occupied is declared total property of Mrs. Nyala and Zariah.”
He lifted a hand again.
“And four: Based on the video evidence and confessions in this room, I order the immediate arrest of Mr.
Tmaine and Ms. Valencia for multiple criminal offenses, including conspiracy to commit fraud, perjury, domestic theft, and tampering with evidence in a court of law.”
“Take them away.”
Security guards handcuffed Tmaine. The man who had walked in that morning with arrogance was now led out with his head bowed.
He passed me without daring to meet my eyes.
Valencia was handcuffed too. Her screams dried into ugly sobs. She was dragged away.
Her career and her freedom were gone.
I sat trembling.
Attorney Abernathy grinned from ear to ear.
“We won, Nyala,” he whispered.
“We won.”
I couldn’t speak. I stood up and walked slowly toward the center of the room.
Zariah ran to me.
I knelt and hugged her tight, like I was hugging my own salvation. I cried on her small shoulders—not tears of sadness now, but tears of a mother saved by her little heroine.
The aftermath of judgment day spread like wildfire.
The story of the broken tablet made headlines everywhere: the greedy husband, the false testimony, the seven-year-old who walked into court and saved her mother.
The first weeks were a blur. Attorney Abernathy took care of everything. By court order, all of Tmaine and Valencia’s assets were frozen.
The investigation proved Tmaine had transferred nearly a million dollars to Valencia’s account over the last year.
Every cent was seized and returned to my new account.
The big cold house was legally mine—but I couldn’t stay there. Too many bad memories lived in those walls. With Abernathy’s guidance, I sold the house.
The proceeds were enough to start a new life.
Punishment came swift and severe. Given the overwhelming evidence, Tmaine was sentenced to twelve years in prison for fraud, theft, and perjury. Valencia’s credentials turned out to be real, but criminally used—she was sentenced to eight years, and her license was permanently revoked.
Attorney Cromwell was immediately disbarred by the ethics committee and faced criminal charges for his participation.
Karma was paid in full.
Three months after that judgment day, children’s laughter echoed in a small green park.
The weight of worry had left my face as I watched Zariah swing under an open sky.
We had moved—not to a mansion, not to a cold showpiece—but to a modest, cozy three-bedroom apartment. It was full of photos of the two of us and smelled like cookies I’d baked.
I started a small catering business from home. The culinary skills Tmaine always belittled were now praised.
Orders came in. I was busy and tired, but happy.
Independent.
“Mommy, look!” Zariah ran toward me on the park bench, her hands dirty with soil. “The flowers are going to bloom soon.”
I smiled, stroking her short hair.
“Wow, my daughter is very good at planting things.”
We sat side by side for a while, letting the afternoon sun warm our faces.
There was a question I hadn’t been able to ask calmly.
“Princess,” I said softly, “can I ask you something?”
“What, Mommy?”
“The video on the old tablet… why? Why did you record it?”
Zariah was silent for a moment, like she was pulling the memory from a drawer.
“Because I didn’t like Auntie Valencia,” she said.
“Why didn’t you like her?”
“She pretended to be nice,” Zariah said, voice earnest. “She smiled at Mommy and talked to me at the mall.
But when Mommy went to the bathroom, she told Daddy, ‘Your wife takes too long.’ And in the park too. She saw me, but she told Daddy Mommy wasn’t watching me.”
My throat tightened.
“But Mommy was watching me,” Zariah insisted, like she needed the world to know.
Then she continued.
“And that night… Daddy said he was working late, but I heard his car come back. I wanted to show Daddy my new drawing.
When I went down, I saw Daddy come in with Auntie Valencia. Daddy hugged her right away. I got scared, so I hid behind the flower pot.
So I recorded from there.”
She nodded, like it was the simplest thing.
“Yes. I used the old tablet to record. I remembered Mommy said that if there are bad people, there must be proof.
And I had the old tablet with me.”
My heart warmed.
I had forgotten I ever said that.
Then I asked the question that had haunted me the most.
“Why didn’t you tell Mommy? Why did you keep it a secret?”
Zariah looked down.
“Daddy said Mommy shouldn’t know,” she whispered.
My brows knit.
“Daddy told you that?”
“Yes,” she said. “In the video, Daddy told Auntie Valencia, ‘My wife is stupid.
She won’t know.’ I thought it was a big secret because Daddy said Mommy shouldn’t know. So I kept it. I didn’t want Daddy to get mad if Mommy found out.”
It was the pure logic of a child—fear and obedience twisted into silence.
“So why did you show it in court?” I asked softly.
Zariah’s eyes filled with tears.
“Because the judge was going to take me away from Mommy,” she said.
“Daddy said Mommy was bad. And Auntie Valencia said Mommy was bad. And that’s not true.
I don’t want to be separated from Mommy.”
She wiped her face with her sleeve.
“Mommy isn’t bad. Mommy is the best mom. So I had to show the judge that Daddy and Auntie Valencia are the bad ones.”
I couldn’t hold back anymore.
I pulled her into my arms and cried tears of joy.
For so long, I’d been crushed by Tmaine’s accusations that I was a failed mother. I’d doubted myself, felt destroyed.
But the strongest proof sat right there in my arms.
I hadn’t failed.
I had raised an incredible daughter—a sharp, pure-hearted girl who could tell truth from lies, a brave child who acted alone to protect her mother.
“Thank you, princess,” I whispered into her hair. “Thank you for saving me.”
“I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you too, Zariah.”
When I pulled back, I looked at her bright face and finally understood.
I had never failed.
I had just been raising a heroine.
And now, both of us were free for a new beginning.
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