They say that when you marry a man, you marry his family. It is an old cliché, worn smooth by generations of whispering grandmothers, but for me, Sarah Jenkins, it wasn’t just a saying. It was a life sentence without the possibility of parole.
The air in the hallway outside Courtroom 402 smelled of stale floor wax, damp wool, and the distinct, metallic tang of anxiety. It was a gray, sleeting Tuesday in November, the kind of Chicago weather that doesn’t just chill you; it seeps into your marrow and settles there. I sat on the hard wooden bench, my hands trembling in my lap, trying to make myself as small as possible.
“Okay, Sarah,” Janice, my court-appointed public defender, sighed. She smelled of menthol cigarettes and defeat. She was flipping through a messy stack of files, her brow furrowed in a permanent state of stress. “The judge today is usually Judge Henderson. He’s… okay. He’s fair, but he tends to favor stability. In Cook County family court, ‘stability’ is usually a code word for money. We need to emphasize your bond with the child. We need to make him see the mother, not the bank account.”
I nodded, unable to speak. My throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I looked down at my suit—a navy blue blazer I’d bought at a thrift store three years ago. The cuffs were slightly frayed, and I had used a black marker to color in a scuff on my heel. I was preparing for war against a battalion of tanks, armed only with a plastic spoon and a desperate love for my son.
Just then, the elevator doors at the end of the corridor dinged—a sharp, cheerful sound that felt entirely out of place. The atmosphere in the hallway shifted instantly. The air grew heavier, sucked out of the room by the sheer gravitational pull of the woman stepping out of the car.
Patricia Vanderhovven.
She looked like she was attending a funeral for an enemy she had personally dispatched. She was draped in a black mink coat that probably cost more than my entire college education. Diamond stud earrings the size of knuckles flashed under the fluorescent lights, and she wore oversized sunglasses she didn’t bother to remove indoors. Flanking her was Richard, my husband—no, my estranged husband. He looked pale, his weak chin tucked into his scarf, his eyes darting to the floor to avoid mine.
And then there was Arthur C. Pearson.
Pearson was a short man, perfectly tailored in a bespoke suit, with a smile that showed too many teeth. In Chicago legal circles, he wasn’t known as a lawyer; he was known as The Butcher. He cost $1,500 an hour, and his specialty wasn’t just winning cases; it was incinerating the opposing party until nothing but ash remained.
They stopped ten feet away. Patricia lowered her sunglasses, her eyes—cold and blue as glacial ice—raking over me with pure, unadulterated disgust.
“You still have time to sign the papers, Sarah,” Patricia’s voice carried down the hall, smooth and poisonous. “Save yourself the embarrassment. You look tired, dear. Poor thing.”
“I’m not signing anything,” I whispered. My voice was quiet, but to my surprise, it didn’t shake. “I’m not giving up Leo.”
“Have it your way,” Patricia scoffed, adjusting her leather gloves. “Richard, don’t look at her.”
Richard obeyed immediately, turning his head toward the peeling beige paint of the wall. That was the man I had married—a man of thirty with a spine made of gelatin, forever tethered to his mother’s purse strings.
“All rise,” the bailiff’s voice boomed from inside the heavy oak doors.
We filed in. The courtroom was intimidating, a cavern of dark wood paneling and high ceilings designed to make you feel insignificant. I took my seat at the defendant’s table, the wood hard and cold under my palms. Patricia and Richard sat behind Pearson at the plaintiff’s table, looking like royalty holding court.
The bailiff stood by the door, a piece of paper in his hand. He frowned at it, squinted, and then cleared his throat.
“Docket number 4492, Vanderhovven versus Vanderhovven,” he announced. “Presiding…”
He paused. The silence stretched, confusing. Usually, the bailiff rattled off the name without a second thought. He looked up, his eyes wide.
“Presiding, the Honorable Justice William Sterling.”
The world stopped.
The blood drained from my face so violently I felt dizzy, black spots dancing in my vision. No. It couldn’t be. My father was the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Illinois. He sat in the marble halls of the high court; he didn’t handle grimy custody disputes in the lower circuit. He didn’t do family law.
But then the door behind the bench opened.
Out walked a man carved from granite. He was older than I remembered. His hair, once a salt-and-pepper steel, was now completely white, and he had grown a short, neat beard that hid some of his stern jawline. But the eyes were the same. Steel lasers that missed nothing. He moved with a slow, terrifying grace, his black robes billowing around him like the wings of a dark angel as he ascended the steps to the high chair.
He sat down, arranged his files with precise, deliberate movements, and looked out over the courtroom.
“Please be seated,” his voice rumbled. It was the voice of God from my childhood nightmares. “Judge Henderson has fallen ill this morning. As I was in the building for administrative meetings, I have elected to clear the docket myself to avoid delays.”
It was a lie. Or maybe a half-truth. William Sterling didn’t just “fill in.” He took command.
I slumped in my chair, trying to make myself invisible. If he saw me—if he realized who I was—he would have to recuse himself. The case would be delayed, pushed back months. Or worse, he would stay on. He would sit there, the ultimate arbiter of morality, and judge my failures right in front of Patricia. He would see his estranged daughter, broke, broken, and begging, just as he had predicted seven years ago.
Patricia leaned forward to whisper to Pearson. “Who is this? Where is Henderson?”
Pearson looked nervous for the first time. “That’s Justice Sterling. He’s… he’s a heavy hitter. Very old school. Hard to bribe… I mean, hard to sway.”
Justice Sterling put on his reading glasses. He picked up the case file. He read the names aloud, testing the weight of them.
“Richard Vanderhovven.”
“Sarah Jenkins.”
He paused. His hand froze on the paper. The silence in the room was deafening. I held my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He knows.
Sterling looked up. He looked directly at the defense table. His eyes locked onto mine.
For seven years, there had been silence. Seven years since I packed a bag and walked out of his colonial mansion. Seven years since I changed my name to my mother’s maiden name to escape his shadow. Seven years of missed birthdays, unanswered letters, and a cold war of pride.
Now, across the expanse of a courtroom, father and daughter locked eyes.
Please, Dad, I pleaded silently. Just be a judge today. Don’t be him.
Sterling’s face remained a mask of stone. He showed no recognition. No smile. No frown. No flicker of fatherly warmth. He simply looked at me, cataloged my presence, and then shifted his gaze to the plaintiff’s table, analyzing Patricia and Richard with cold, reptilian detachment.
“Mr. Pearson,” Sterling said, his voice calm but carrying a dangerous undercurrent. “I see you are representing the petitioner. You may make your opening statement. And be brief. I do not have patience for theatrics today.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. He wasn’t recusing himself. He was going to hear the case.
Patricia smirked. She whispered to Richard, loud enough for me to hear, “He looks strict. He’ll hate her poverty. This is perfect.”
She had no idea she was staring into the eyes of the wolf whose cub she was trying to steal.
Arthur C. Pearson did not walk; he prowled. He adjusted his silk tie—a crimson shade that seemed too bright for the drab courtroom—and approached the center of the floor. He didn’t look at the judge. He looked at the gallery, performing for an audience of ghosts, before turning his shark-like gaze onto me.
“Your Honor,” Pearson began, his voice smooth like expensive scotch poured over razor blades. “We are here today not to disparage a mother. No, that is never our intent. We are here to save a child.”
He paused for effect. Patricia Vanderhovven nodded solemnly from her seat, clutching a lace handkerchief she had no intention of crying into.
“The facts, Justice Sterling, are simple but tragic,” Pearson continued, pacing slowly. “My client, Mr. Richard Vanderhovven, is a man of substantial means. He can provide the minor child, Leo, with the best education, the safest home, and a lineage that opens doors across the world. The defendant, Ms. Jenkins…”
He said my name as if it were a synonym for a disease.
“…is a woman currently residing in a six-hundred-square-foot apartment in a neighborhood where the crime rate is, frankly, terrifying. She is unemployed, surviving on meager savings, and, as we will demonstrate, psychologically unfit to raise a child of this stature.”
I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white. Psychologically unfit.
“Objection!” Janice, my public defender, squeaked. She cleared her throat and stood up, trying to find her footing. “Objection, Your Honor. Speculation. Poverty does not equal unfitness.”
Justice Sterling didn’t move his head. His eyes merely flicked from Pearson to Janice. “Sustained. Mr. Pearson, stick to evidence, not socioeconomic critiques. Being poor is not a crime in my courtroom. Yet.”
Pearson bristled slightly. He wasn’t used to being interrupted during his opening monologue. He forced a tight smile. “Of course, Your Honor. Let us move to evidence, then.”
He pulled out a stack of enlarged photographs and placed them on an easel. The first photo was of my kitchen. There were dishes in the sink. A box of cereal was left open on the counter. It looked lived-in. Messy, perhaps, but normal.
“Exhibit A,” Pearson announced. “Photos taken by a private investigator three days ago. Note the chaos, the filth. Is this a sanitary environment for a toddler?”
I gasped. “I was making dinner,” I whispered frantically to Janice. “I hadn’t done the dishes yet. That was taken through my window!”
“Shh,” Janice hissed.
Pearson flipped to the next photo. It was a grainy shot of me sitting on a park bench, looking exhausted, my head in my hands while Leo played in the sand a few feet away.
“Exhibit B,” Pearson intoned, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Neglect. Here we see the mother disengaged, possibly despondent, ignoring the child in a public space. Anyone could have snatched him. She is too wrapped up in her own depression to protect the heir to the Vanderhovven fortune.”
“Heir,” Justice Sterling repeated. The word hung in the air like smoke.
Pearson stopped. “Excuse me, Your Honor?”
Sterling leaned forward, his elbows on the heavy oak bench. “You referred to the child as ‘the heir.’ Is this a custody hearing for a human boy, Mr. Pearson, or a corporate merger?”
The courtroom went silent. Patricia’s eyes narrowed behind her sunglasses. She wasn’t used to judges questioning the terminology of power.
Pearson chuckled nervously. “A figure of speech, Your Honor. The point remains. Ms. Jenkins has no family, no support system. She is entirely alone in this world. If she falls ill, who cares for the boy? If she runs out of money—which she will by next month—who feeds the boy? Mr. Vanderhovven has a staff of nannies, tutors, and a grandmother who is devoted to his well-being.”
He pointed a manicured finger at Patricia. She lowered her head gracefully, playing the part of the doting matriarch to perfection.
“We are asking for full physical custody,” Pearson concluded, “with supervised visitation for the mother. We believe her influence is detrimental.”
Pearson sat down. He looked at Richard and winked.
“Call your first witness,” Sterling commanded.
“I call Mrs. Patricia Vanderhovven to the stand.”
Patricia stood up. She smoothed her skirt, walked past me without glancing in my direction, and took the stand. She was sworn in.
“Mrs. Vanderhovven,” Pearson asked. “Describe your relationship with your daughter-in-law.”
Patricia sighed, a long-suffering sound that suggested she was a martyr for tolerance. “I tried, Arthur. I really did. I welcomed her into our home. I gave her clothes. I tried to teach her about culture, about art. But Sarah… she’s very simple. She refused my help. She became hostile.”
“Hostile?” Pearson prompted.
“Yes. She would scream at Richard. She would forbid me from seeing my grandson. I believe she was jealous. Jealous of the bond I have with Leo.” Patricia looked directly at the judge, removing her sunglasses to reveal eyes composed of blue ice. “Your Honor, I only want what is best for that baby. He needs stability. He needs his family. Sarah has cut herself off from everyone. She is a drifter. A woman with no roots cannot raise a tree.”
It was a rehearsed line. I knew it. I had heard Patricia practicing it on the phone a week ago.
“Thank you, Mrs. Vanderhovven,” Pearson said.
“Cross-examination?” Sterling asked, looking at Janice.
Janice stood up, shuffling her papers. She looked terrified of Patricia. “Um, Mrs. Vanderhovven, you said Sarah was hostile. Did you ever enter her home without permission?”
Patricia laughed softly. “It was my son’s home. I don’t need permission to visit my son.”
“But did you use a key to enter when Sarah asked you not to?”
“I was checking on the safety of the house. Sarah leaves doors unlocked. She is careless.”
“Did you rearrange the furniture to undermine her authority?”
“I rearranged it because it was ugly,” Patricia snapped, her mask slipping for a fraction of a second. “I have standards. Someone has to teach that child aesthetics.”
Janice looked at the judge, hoping he saw the arrogance. Sterling’s face was unreadable. He was writing something on a notepad.
“No further questions,” Janice said, retreating.
My heart sank. They weren’t landing any punches. Patricia was winning simply by being louder, richer, and more confident.
“The defense may call its witness,” Justice Sterling said. The clock on the wall ticked loudly. It was 11:45 a.m.
“I call Sarah Jenkins,” Janice said.
I stood up. My legs felt like lead. I walked to the witness box, conscious of the hole in the sole of my left shoe. I sat down. The wood of the chair was hard. I looked at my father.
This was the closest I had been to him in seven years. I could see the deep lines around his eyes, the way his beard was trimmed perfectly. I could smell the faint scent of old paper and pipe tobacco that always clung to his robes—a scent that used to mean safety, but now meant judgment.
He didn’t look at me as a daughter. He looked at me as a case number. Docket 4492.
“State your name for the record,” he said. His voice didn’t waver.
“Sarah Jenkins,” I whispered.
“Louder, please,” Sterling said.
“Sarah Jenkins,” I said, projecting my voice, trying to find the steel he had always demanded of me.
Janice began her questioning. We went through the basics—my love for Leo, my job search, the fact that Richard had forced me to quit my archival job. I defended the messy kitchen (“Toddlers make messes, I clean them up”). I defended my parenting.
“Your witness,” Janice said.
Pearson stood up. He buttoned his jacket. This was the part he enjoyed. The kill.
“Ms. Jenkins,” Pearson began, leaning on the railing of the witness box, invading my personal space. “You speak very passionately about being a mother. But let’s talk about being a daughter.”
I froze.
“You changed your name from Sarah Sterling to Sarah Jenkins seven years ago. Is that correct?”
My eyes darted to the judge. Sterling didn’t blink. He stared at Pearson.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why?”
“I… I wanted a fresh start.”
“A fresh start?” Pearson laughed. “Or were you running away? You have no contact with your family. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Your father,” Pearson said, checking his notes. He obviously hadn’t made the connection. To Pearson, ‘Sterling’ was a common name, and William Sterling was a figure so high up on Olympus he didn’t associate him with this woman in a cheap blazer. “Your father is alive. He lives in this state.”
“Yes.”
“And yet you haven’t spoken to him in seven years. Why? Was there abuse?”
“No,” I said quickly. “No abuse.”
“Then why?” Pearson pressed, his voice rising. “Is it because you are difficult? Is it because you are stubborn? Is it because you possess a pathological inability to maintain relationships? You couldn’t keep a relationship with your father. You couldn’t keep a relationship with your husband. And now you want us to believe you can maintain a relationship with your son?”
“That’s not fair,” I said, my voice shaking.
“It is a pattern, Ms. Jenkins!” Pearson shouted. “A pattern of isolation. You isolate yourself. And if we give you Leo, you will isolate him. You will drag him down into your world of lonely, bitter estrangement. You have no support system. If you get sick tomorrow, who comes? No one. Because you drove them all away.”
“I have friends…”
“Friends?” Pearson scoffed. “Librarians? Do they have the resources to protect a Vanderhovven heir? No.”
Pearson walked back to his table and picked up a document. “Admit it, Ms. Jenkins. You are out of your depth. You married a man for his money, found out that being a rich wife actually required social grace you don’t possess, and now you are trying to use the child as a meal ticket.”
“That is a lie!” I stood up, my hands slamming on the railing. “I never asked for money. I don’t want his money!”
“Then give up custody!” Pearson roared. “If it’s not about the money, let the boy live in the mansion where he belongs! Let him have the life he deserves!”
“He deserves a mother who loves him, not a grandmother who views him as a trophy!” I screamed back.
“Your Honor!” Patricia shouted from her seat, unable to help herself. “She is hysterical! Look at her! She’s unstable!”
“ORDER!”
Justice Sterling slammed his gavel. The sound cracked through the room like a whip.
“Mr. Pearson,” Sterling said, his voice dangerously low. “You are badgering the witness.”
“I am establishing credibility, Your Honor,” Pearson said, smirking. “This woman has hidden her past. She hides her family. She is secretive and deceitful. We don’t even know who her people are. She is a nobody who came from nowhere.”
Justice Sterling looked at me. For a fleeting second, I saw something in his eyes. It wasn’t warmth. It was pain. Regret.
“Ms. Jenkins,” Sterling said, addressing me directly. “Mr. Pearson raises a point about support systems. It is a valid concern for the court. If you were to face a crisis… do you have family you could call?”
I looked at my father. This was the test. He was asking me publicly if I would ever come back. Or maybe he was trapping me.
I took a deep breath. I looked at Patricia, looking smug in her furs. I looked at Richard, looking at the floor. I looked at Pearson, the shark.
“I…” I started. “I have a father. He is… he is a man of great principle.”
Sterling’s pen stopped moving.
“But,” I continued, tears spilling over. “I disappointed him. I made choices he didn’t agree with. I was proud, and he was proud, and we let the silence grow too long.”
I looked directly at the judge.
“But I know,” I said, my voice gaining strength. “I know that if my son was ever in danger… if I really needed him… my father would be there. Because he is a protector. He stands up for what is right. Even if he is angry with me, he hates injustice.”
The courtroom was silent. Sterling stared at me, his jaw tightened. He slowly uncapped his pen and wrote a single word on his pad.
“Thank you, Ms. Jenkins,” Sterling said softly. “You may step down.”
I returned to my seat, trembling. Pearson looked confused. He had expected the judge to berate me for the lack of family. Instead, the mood had shifted. It felt heavy.
“Mr. Pearson,” Sterling said. “Do you have any further witnesses?”
“No, Your Honor. The plaintiff rests.”
“Defense?”
“We rest, Your Honor,” Janice said.
Justice Sterling closed the file folder. He interlaced his fingers.
“I have heard enough,” Sterling said. “I am ready to issue a ruling.”
“Already?” Pearson asked, surprised. “Your Honor, usually there are closing arguments…”
“I do not need closing arguments to see the truth of this matter,” Sterling said. “Stand up.”
Everyone stood.
“The court finds,” Sterling began, “that the plaintiff, Richard Vanderhovven, though financially capable, has demonstrated a remarkable lack of backbone.”
Richard flinched.
“The court also finds,” Sterling continued, looking at Patricia, “that the paternal grandmother, Mrs. Vanderhovven, seems to be the driving force behind this litigation. This court is not fond of proxy wars.”
Patricia’s mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”
“However,” Sterling said, turning to me. “The court is concerned about the defendant’s financial stability.”
I held my breath. Here it came. The gavel drop.
“Therefore,” Sterling said. “I am ordering a temporary continuance of the current custody arrangement.”
“What?” Patricia shrieked.
“She keeps him for thirty days,” Sterling said, ignoring her. “During which time, Ms. Jenkins will be required to secure gainful employment and suitable housing. If she does so, full custody will be awarded to her with standard visitation for the father.”
It was a lifeline. It wasn’t a total win, but it was a chance.
“This is outrageous!” Patricia yelled. She stepped out from behind the table. “Do you know who we are? Do you know how much tax money my husband pays in this city?”
“Mrs. Vanderhovven, sit down,” Pearson hissed, grabbing her arm.
“No!” Patricia pulled away. She was red in the face. The mask of the socialite had slipped, revealing the tyrant underneath. “This judge is incompetent! He is clearly biased! Look at him—looking at her with those soft eyes! What did she do? Did she sleep with you too?”
The entire courtroom gasped. My eyes went wide.
“Don’t,” I whispered.
Justice Sterling rose from his seat. He seemed to grow three feet taller. His face was thunderous.
“Mrs. Vanderhovven,” he boomed. “You are in contempt!”
“I am in the right!” Patricia screamed. She walked toward the defense table. She was losing control. She had never lost in her life. She couldn’t handle the word no. She reached me.
I stood up, backing away.
“You little witch,” Patricia hissed, her eyes manic. “You poisoned the judge. You manipulated everyone. You are not taking my grandson.”
“Patricia, stop!” I said, putting my hands up.
“Don’t you tell me to stop!”
And then it happened.
Patricia Vanderhovven, the queen of Lake Forest, swung her arm back.
Smack.
The sound was sickeningly loud. Patricia’s diamond-encrusted hand connected with my cheek with full force. I stumbled back, hitting the table, clutching my face.
Silence. Absolute, terrified silence.
Patricia stood there, chest heaving, hand stinging. She felt a moment of triumphant release. She had put the girl in her place.
Then she heard the sound of a chair scraping against the floor—a heavy, wooden chair.
She looked up.
Justice William Sterling was no longer behind the bench. He had descended the stairs. He was walking across the floor of the courtroom. He wasn’t walking like a judge. He was walking like a tank. His robes flowed behind him like the wings of an avenging angel. His face was a color of rage that Arthur Pearson had never seen in a human being before.
“Bailiff!” Sterling roared, his voice shaking the walls. “Arrest that woman!”
Patricia looked confused. “What? You can’t arrest me. It’s a civil court!”
Sterling didn’t stop walking until he was three feet from Patricia. He towered over her.
“You just assaulted a litigant in my courtroom,” Sterling snarled, his voice low and terrifying. “You just assaulted a woman who is under the protection of the law.”
“She’s a nobody,” Patricia spat, though her voice faltered as she looked into Sterling’s eyes. “She’s just a trashy little…”
“SHE IS MY DAUGHTER!”
The scream tore from Sterling’s throat, echoing off the high ceilings. The world seemed to stop spinning.
Patricia froze. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Richard looked up, his eyes bulging. Pearson dropped his pen. I stood there, holding my throbbing cheek, looking at my father. He was standing in front of me, shielding my body with his own. He was shaking.
“She…” Patricia whispered. “She is your… what?”
Sterling stared down at Patricia with a look of pure, unadulterated loathing.
“You just struck Sarah Sterling,” the judge said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “You just struck the daughter of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Illinois.”
Sterling turned to the bailiffs who were standing stunned by the door.
“Get her out of my sight,” Sterling barked. “Cuff her. Charge her with assault, battery, and contempt of court. Maximum bail. If she speaks another word, gag her.”
As the bailiffs moved in, grabbing Patricia’s mink-covered arms, she began to struggle. “Wait! I didn’t know! Richard, do something!”
Richard sat in his chair, shrinking into a ball. He said nothing.
“I didn’t know!” Patricia wailed as they dragged her toward the side door.
Sterling didn’t watch her go. He turned around. He looked at me. My cheek was already turning purple.
The Hanging Judge vanished. The father returned.
His hands, usually so steady, shook as he reached out. He didn’t care about the court reporter. He didn’t care about the ethics committee. He reached out and cupped my face.
“Sarah,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry.”
The courtroom had been cleared. The gallery, which had been buzzing with the scandal of the century, was ushered out by bailiffs who looked equally shocked.
I sat on a plush leather sofa in the judge’s private chambers. The room smelled of mahogany and old books, a scent that instantly transported me back to my childhood—to the library where I used to hide and read while my father wrote his opinions. A court medic, a kind woman named Maria, was gently applying a cold compress to my cheek.
“It’s not broken, honey,” Maria said softly. “But you’re going to have a nasty bruise for a week. Ice it every two hours.”
The heavy oak door opened. Justice William Sterling walked in. He had removed his black robe. Underneath, he wore a crisp white shirt and a dark tie loosened at the collar. He looked smaller without the robes—more human, and infinitely more tired.
He stopped at the door, looking at me. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence that had stretched for seven years still hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
“Thank you, Maria,” William said, his voice raspy. “Please give us a moment.”
Maria nodded, packed her kit, and slipped out, closing the door with a soft click.
William walked over to the wet bar in the corner. His hands, usually steady enough to sign death warrants, were trembling slightly. He poured a glass of water and brought it to me.
“Here,” he said.
I took the glass. My fingers brushed his. “Thank you.”
William pulled a chair opposite me and sat down. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands. He looked at the bruise on my face, and his jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
“I should have held her in contempt the moment she opened her mouth,” William muttered, more to himself than to me. “I let it go on too long. I wanted to see… I wanted to see if you could handle it. I risked your safety to test your strength. That was a failure of judgment.”
“I handled it, Dad,” I said softly. “I didn’t hit her back.”
William let out a short, dry laugh. “No, you didn’t. You have more restraint than I do. If I hadn’t been wearing that robe…” He trailed off, the implication clear.
He looked me in the eyes. “Sarah… why?”
It was the question that encompassed everything. Why the silence? Why the name change? Why Richard?
I lowered the ice pack. “Because you said I wouldn’t make it,” I said, my voice wavering. “The last night we spoke, you told me that if I walked out that door to pursue a ‘useless life,’ I would come crawling back within a year. You said I was soft.”
William flinched as if I had slapped him. “I was angry. I was scared you were throwing your potential away.”
“I wanted to prove you wrong,” I said. “I wanted to prove I could build a life without the Sterling name. And I did. I was happy, Dad. Before Richard, before things got bad… I loved my job at the library. I love being a mother.”
“I know,” William said.
I looked up sharply. “How do you know?”
William sighed. He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a worn leather wallet. He opened it. Tucked behind his ID was a small, creased photograph. It was a picture of me pushing a stroller in Lincoln Park. It had been taken from a distance.
“I hired a private investigator five years ago,” William admitted, his voice thick with shame. “I knew where you lived. I knew when you got married. I knew when Leo was born.”
“You spied on me?” I asked, a mix of anger and relief washing over me.
“I checked on you,” he corrected. “Every month, I got a report. I knew you were safe. I told myself that was enough. I told myself that if you wanted me, you would call. I was waiting for you to make the first move because… because I was too proud to admit I was wrong.”
He looked at the floor. “When I saw the docket this morning—Vanderhovven versus Vanderhovven—I recognized the name. I knew who Richard was from the reports. I knew his mother was a viper. I switched with Judge Henderson specifically because I knew you wouldn’t have the money for a high-powered attorney. I wanted to ensure the trial was fair.”
“You rigged the court?” I asked, a small smile tugging at my lips.
“I managed the docket,” William said with a hint of his old arrogance. “There is a difference.”
He leaned forward and took my hand. His skin was rough, warm, and familiar.
“I saw you today, Sarah. Standing there defending your son against that shark, Pearson, and that harpy, Patricia. You weren’t soft. You were steel. You were more of a Sterling than I ever was.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “I’m broke, Dad. I’m living in a shoe box. I failed.”
“You didn’t fail,” William said fiercely. “You survived. And you are not broke. You are the daughter of William Sterling, and I have missed out on three years of my grandson’s life. I do not intend to miss a single day more.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter!” William barked, wiping his eyes quickly.
It was a bailiff. “Your Honor, Mr. Pearson is outside. He says he needs to speak with you regarding the… um… the defendant.”
William stood up. The tenderness vanished, replaced by the icy demeanor of the Chief Justice.
“Send him in,” William said. “And tell him to bring Mr. Vanderhovven.”
Arthur Pearson looked like a man who had just realized he was standing on a landmine. He walked into the chambers with his head bowed, his usual swagger completely evaporated. Richard trailed behind him, looking terrified.
“Justice Sterling,” Pearson began, his voice trembling. “I… I want to express my deepest apologies. We had no idea…”
“No idea that my daughter was a human being deserving of dignity?” Sterling cut him off. “Or no idea that she had a father who could disbar you with a phone call?”
Pearson swallowed hard. “The assault was inexcusable. I have already withdrawn as counsel for Mrs. Vanderhovven. I cannot represent a client who attacks an opposing party in open court.”
“Wise choice,” Sterling said dryly. “Because if you were still her lawyer, you would be named as a co-defendant in the civil suit my daughter is going to file.”
Richard stepped forward. “Sir… Justice Sterling… is my mother… is she in jail?”
Sterling turned his gaze to his son-in-law. He looked Richard up and down with clinical distaste.
“Your mother is currently being processed at Cook County Jail,” Sterling said. “She has been charged with aggravated battery, contempt of court, and disorderly conduct. Given the flight risk and the severity of the attack on a protected party, bail has been set at five hundred thousand dollars. I doubt she will be home for dinner.”
“Can I… can I pay it?” Richard asked weakly.
“You can do whatever you like,” Sterling said. “But I have a question for you, Mr. Vanderhovven. When your mother raised her hand to your wife—the mother of your child—why did you sit there?”
Richard stammered. “I… I was shocked. I didn’t think…”
“Exactly,” Sterling said. “You didn’t think. You let your mother run your marriage. You let her run your divorce. And you let her assault your wife. You are not a father, son. You are a dependent.”
Sterling picked up a file from his desk. “This is the temporary custody order. I am amending it. Due to the violent nature of the paternal grandmother and your inability to protect the child from her, I am granting Sarah full legal and physical custody effective immediately. You will have supervised visitation only, and that visitation will not occur in the presence of Patricia Vanderhovven. If she comes within five hundred feet of my grandson, I will have her arrested for violating a restraining order. Do I make myself clear?”
Richard looked at me. He looked at the bruise on my face. For the first time, the reality of what he had lost seemed to hit him.
“Sarah,” Richard whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“Save it, Richard,” I said, my voice steady. “Go bail out your mother. She’s the only woman you’ve ever really committed to.”
Richard hung his head and walked out. Pearson lingered for a second.
“Justice Sterling… about my standing with the Bar Association…”
“Get out, Arthur,” Sterling said.
Pearson fled.
Three months later, the Sunday dinner table at the Sterling Estate was set for three. The dining room, once a place of silent, oppressive meals, was now chaotic in the best possible way. High chairs didn’t usually match antique mahogany, but William Sterling didn’t care.
“More peas, please!” Leo chirped, banging his plastic spoon on the table.
“Say ‘please,’ Grandfather,” I corrected, smiling.
“Pas Gramps!” Leo shouted.
William Sterling, the terror of the Illinois judicial system, chuckled. He spooned a helping of peas onto the toddler’s plate. “There you go, counselor.”
I looked around the room. I wasn’t living here—I had refused my father’s offer to move back in fully. Instead, I had accepted a loan from him to rent a nice two-bedroom townhome in a safe neighborhood. I had also accepted his help in networking. I was now working as a paralegal at a mid-sized firm, with plans to finish my law degree at night.
Patricia Vanderhovven had not fared as well. The video of the assault, captured by the courtroom security cameras, had somehow leaked to the press. The image of the billionaire socialite slapping a defenseless woman had gone viral. “The Slap Heard ‘Round the Suburbs” became a meme. Humiliated and facing jail time, Patricia had taken a plea deal. She pleaded guilty to battery. Her sentence included two years of probation, five hundred hours of community service (picking up trash on the highway, much to the delight of the local tabloids), and mandatory anger management therapy.
But the worst punishment for Patricia wasn’t the law. It was the isolation. The social circles of Chicago are unforgiving. Patricia was radioactive. She was no longer the Queen of Lake Forest; she was the crazy woman who hit a judge’s daughter. She spent her days alone in her mansion, Richard having finally moved to a condo downtown to escape her toxicity.
I took a sip of my wine. “Dad?”
“Yes?” William asked, wiping pea puree off his tie.
“Thanks for the loan. I’ll pay you back the first installment next month.”
William waved his hand. “Forget the money. Just promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t wait seven years to tell me when you’re in trouble next time. I can’t fight for you if I don’t know the war is happening.”
I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Deal.”
Leo threw a pea at the judge’s forehead. It stuck for a second, then fell. William picked up the pea, inspected it, and looked at his grandson with mock severity.
“Assaulting a judicial officer,” William stated gravely. “A serious offense. The sentence is… tickles!”
As the room filled with the sound of a toddler’s laughter and a grandfather’s joy, I finally knew that I wasn’t just safe. I was home.
I had walked into that courtroom a nobody, armed only with the truth. I walked out a Sterling. And Patricia Vanderhovven learned the hard way that you never judge a book by its cover—and you certainly never slap a woman in court without checking who her father is first.
