Chapter 16
The hostess leads me to a corner booth like I’m some kind of celebrity widow.
White linen tablecloth, quiet ambiance, enough distance from the other patrons that I can unravel without an audience.
The judge is already there. Of course he is.
Early. Upright. Polished in a dark navy blazer and a confidence that’s been marinating for sixty-some years.
He stands when he sees me, all warm eyes and courtroom charm.
“There’s my girl,” he says, opening his arms like we’re in a Hallmark movie and not living in my own personal horror show.
I let him hug me. Let him hold on a beat too long. Let him think nothing’s changed, like I haven’t been gutted and stitched back together with coffee-fuelled rage and waterproof mascara.
“You look lovely,” he says as we sit. “Marriage suits you.”
I almost choke on my water. Right. Marriage.
I smile, small and rehearsed, and look down at my bracelet like it’s a character witness.
He orders his usual. I order whatever sounds bland enough to go down without chewing. There’s a weird comfort in how normal it all is. In how completely, devastatingly unaware he is.
“Tell me how you’ve been,” he says, folding his hands like this is a deposition and not the most twisted family reunion of all time. “How’s Michael? Work? Life?”
Oh, we’re doing this.
I take a deep breath and channel the version of myself that still gets invited to Christmas.
“Work’s... in transition,” I say, which is not a lie. It’s just not the part of the truth that matters right now. “And Michael’s… well. He’s been keeping busy.”
His smile softens, that paternal kind of pride you only get from men who think they’ve raised decent sons. “That’s good to hear. I always knew the two of you were built to last. You’ve brought out the best in him.”
I almost laugh. Like, bark-laugh, ugly and sharp. Because if by best he means mid-thrust in bed with my teenage sister, then yes. Michael is absolutely thriving.
But I don’t say that. I can’t. I sip my water and smile like a woman who doesn’t want to burn this entire place to the ground.
“I’ve always appreciated how kind you’ve been to me,” I say instead. What the hell? Michael betrayed me, why the hell am I protecting him ?
I make it through the starter. Barely. A few dry bites of salad, an overlong monologue about local real estate, and my smile- which I’m fairly certain is now being held up by trauma and cheek muscle memory alone.
I keep telling myself: Tell him. Say something devastating but tasteful. Be elegant. Be… Lorna-adjacent.
But then he sets down his fork, leans forward a little, and says, “You know, I’ve been thinking about bringing Michael into something new.”
My spine straightens, just a fraction. Like my body knows danger before my brain can catch up.
“There’s an acquaintance of mine… retiring next year. Good man. Runs an investment firm upstate. He’s looking for someone to mentor, someone to take over eventually. I think Michael could be that person.”
My mouth goes dry.
No. No, no, no. This isn’t happening.
He keeps going, oblivious. “I know he’s let me down before,” he says, with this wistful, painful sort of grace that makes me want to scream into the tablecloth. “But lately… I don’t know. I’ve had this feeling. Like maybe he’s ready to step up. Be the man I always hoped he’d be.”
And wow, okay. There it is. The final straw, the emotional Molotov. Because now he’s not just proud of Michael, he’s hopeful. He’s giving him a legacy. Handing him a future. Screw being nice.
I press my napkin to my lips like I’m dabbing delicately at nothing, but really, I’m just trying to keep myself from blurting out Your son was balls-deep in my teenage sister, and that’s how he’s “stepping up.”
Instead, I smile. Numb. Hollow. Ready to shatter.
“That’s… amazing,” I say. “Really.”
And maybe it’s the way his face lights up, so proud and trusting and wildly, tragically misinformed.
Or maybe it’s just the pressure of holding everything in so tightly for so long.
But something inside me snaps. Quietly. Like a string pulled too taut for too long finally giving out with a soft little ping.
My throat closes. My chest tightens. And suddenly I’m blinking way too fast.
Shit.
I press my napkin harder to my lips, try to pass it off like I’m delicately emotional, maybe a little overwhelmed by his faith in us, as if I’m not about to cry all over my butter lettuce.
“You, okay?” he asks, his brow furrowed in that kind, concerned, dad way that just undoes me even more.
And I nod, stupidly. Because of course I do. Because even now, some part of me is still trying to be the good daughter-in-law. The unproblematic one. The woman who makes nice and keeps quiet and doesn’t cry in public.
But the tears are coming anyway. Hot and sudden and completely unwelcome.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, laughing a little, because isn’t that what women are trained to do when we’re crumbling? Laugh through it so we don’t seem crazy. “God, I don’t even know why I’m crying. I think I’m just, tired. It’s been a lot lately.”
It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.
He reaches across the table, pats my hand like I’m a child who’s skinned her knee instead of a woman whose entire life went up in flames.
And that’s when it happens, when my voice finally breaks, for real this time.
“Judge…” I whisper, and now I’m not sure what part is acting and what’s just pain with mascara. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this. I really didn’t.”
He freezes. His hand stills on mine. The shift in energy is instant, a cold gust under the warmth.
“But Michael and I… it’s over. We’re getting a divorce.”
There. It’s out. And my stomach flips, not with relief, but with a sick sort of anticipation. Because I haven’t even told him why yet. I haven’t dropped the real bomb .
And he’s just staring now. Quiet. Shocked.
“I came home and found him,” I say, swallowing hard, “in bed with someone else.”
The judge stiffens, but he doesn’t speak. Not yet. He’s still doing that blinking, stunned thing, like he’s just heard a foreign language and is waiting for subtitles.
Finally, he says, “I’m so sorry. That’s… I didn’t know. He never said-”
“Of course he didn’t,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to be. My throat is tight. “Because he still wants your respect. Your approval.”
He leans back, processing. “I understand this is painful, but people-couples-go through things. They slip. There’s counselling. It doesn’t have to mean-”
Oh God. He’s trying to fix it.
Of course he is. He’s a judge. He thinks everything has a solution. A process. Mediation. Repair. Redemption.
And maybe if it had been some stranger. A one-time mistake. A faceless, nameless body.
But it wasn’t.
“It was my sister,” I blurt, too loud, too fast. The words rip out of me like they’ve been clawing at my throat all morning. “My nineteen-year-old sister. ”
Silence. Real silence this time. Heavy and dense and humiliating.
His face goes still. Colour drains from his cheeks. “What?” he says, barely a whisper.
“I walked in. Our bed. Him and her.” My voice cracks. “I don’t even know if I was more shocked or impressed by the choreography of betrayal. He ruined two relationships in one night. Efficient, really.”
He says nothing. Just stares. Like I’ve grown horns. Or like he’s watching a building fall that he designed himself.
“I’m sorry,” I add, almost out of habit. My voice is thick. “I didn’t mean to dump this all on you like this. I just… I couldn’t keep lying. Not to you.”
The silence stretches long enough to hurt. Like maybe I’ve just nuked whatever thread of closeness I had left with the only man in that family who ever treated me like I mattered.
Then- he exhales.
And it’s not angry or defensive or dismissive. It’s… pained. Guttural. The sound of something cracking clean down the middle.
His hands, those neat, elegant hands that used to sign court orders and hand me second servings at Thanksgiving, curl into loose fists on the white tablecloth. His brow furrows- not with confusion anymore, but fury. Not at me. At him .
“Jesus Christ,” he says, low and cold. “I knew he was reckless. But this…” He stops. Shakes his head like he can’t even find words heavy enough. “Your sister?”
I nod once, and just like that, the floodgates open. The kind of crying that’s ugly and unstoppable. I cover my face with one hand like that’ll somehow make it less embarrassing. It doesn’t.
But then I feel it. His hand-warm, steady-on top of mine.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey. No. Don’t you dare be ashamed.”
I glance up, and he’s pissed. His face is tight, jaw clenched, that same look he used to get when reading over sentencing reports in his chambers. Like he’s about to deliver a verdict.
“You didn’t deserve this,” he says, voice firm, no hesitation. “None of it. And you sure as hell don’t owe him your silence.”
“I didn’t know if I should tell you,” I whisper, my voice wet and broken. “I thought it would ruin things between us.”
“Ruin what?” he snaps, eyes sharp. “My blind loyalty to a son who’s never once earned it? No. You’re the one who’s shown up. Every damn time. You were the one I was proud of. ”
I lose it then. Full sob. Not out of sadness, but relief. Because someone finally said it. Someone finally chose me.
He doesn’t rush me. Just sits there, guarding me with quiet outrage and paternal warmth. The father figure I always wished I had.
“Whatever you need from me, you have it,” he says. “You want a new attorney; I’ll get you one. You want him cut out of everything, I’ll see to it. You want him exiled to whatever cave bastards like him rot in- I’ll help pack his bag.”
And for the first time in days; hell, maybe weeks; I let out a breath that doesn’t feel like it’s trying to kill me from the inside.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He squeezes my hand once. “You’re not alone, sweetheart. Not anymore. ”