Chapter 6 - The Courtroom Corridors
The morning of the civil pre-trial hearing in Wake County Superior Court was crisp and bright.
David drove me downtown. Eliza was safely at school, blissfully unaware of the legal drama playing out in the marble-columned courthouse. As we walked up the broad stone steps, flashbulbs didn't blind us—this wasn't a celebrity trial—but the local legal community was well aware of Arthur Pendelton’s high-stakes civil filings.
Waiting outside Courtroom 3B were Blythe and Shayla.
They looked like ghosts of their former selves. Mom’s silver hair was unstyled, her designer silk dress replaced by a plain black cardigan that looked like it had been pulled from the back of a thrift store rack. Shayla looked gaunt and exhausted, dark circles bruised beneath her eyes, her posture slumped in defeat.
When they saw me walking down the corridor beside David—looking immaculate in a charcoal wool pantsuit, my posture straight and unyielding—Blythe’s face twisted with bitter resentment.
"Catherine," Mom hissed, stepping forward before a court bailiff could intervene. "Have you completely lost your soul? Suing your own mother? Dragging our family name through the mud over a stupid bicycle?"
I stopped walking, looking down at the woman who had spent thirty-four years teaching me that my feelings, my property, and my dignity were secondary to Shayla’s whims.
"Mom," I said, my voice ice-cold and steady. "You didn't care about family names when you helped Shayla steal my college savings. You didn't care about family when you watched her smash my prom dress with scissors. And you certainly didn't care about family when you stood on my driveway sipping a latte while your adult daughter terrorized a six-year-old child with a hammer."
Shayla stepped forward, her voice trembling with hysterical rage. "It was a joke! You’re blowing this out of proportion! You’ve always been jealous of me because Mom loved me best!"
I stared at her, feeling not a shred of anger—only a profound, liberating pity.
"You're right, Shayla," I said softly. "Mom did love you best. And look where it got you."
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Before either of them could respond, the oak courtroom doors swung open.
"Case number CV-2026-4892: Bennett versus Winslow and Miller," the bailiff called out, his voice echoing off the marble walls. "All parties rise for Judge Henderson."
