“Maybe,” I said. “But right now, I’m just happy to have my life back.”
“Fair enough,” Brennan said. “But if you change your mind, you’ve got a job waiting at my firm. Paralegal to start, law school support if you want it. I mean that.”
We drank in comfortable silence for a while.
“You know what the funny thing is?” I said finally. “Rebecca was right about one thing. I couldn’t afford an attorney. I was broke, unemployed, and completely out of my depth.”
Brennan nodded like he already knew where I was going.
“But I won anyway,” I said, “because I had something more important than money. I had the truth, and I had the skills to present it effectively. My grandfather taught me that the law isn’t about being rich or poor. It’s about being right.”
Brennan raised his glass.
“To your grandfather,” he said, “and to you for honoring his legacy.”
We clinked glasses.
I never did go to law school, but I also never forgot what I learned during those few months of representing myself. I learned that the system isn’t rigged against the little guy—not if the little guy is willing to do the work. I learned that expensive attorneys can be beaten by preparation and truth. And I learned that sometimes the best revenge isn’t revenge at all. It’s just standing up for yourself with dignity and integrity.
Rebecca and Preston got married three months after our divorce was finalized. According to mutual friends, the marriage lasted eighteen months before Preston filed for divorce, citing irreconcilable differences and financial fraud. Apparently, Rebecca had been hiding debts and expenses, lying about money the same way she’d lied to the court during our divorce.
I didn’t celebrate when I heard that news. I didn’t feel vindicated or pleased. I just felt sad that Rebecca hadn’t learned anything from our experience.
As for me, I met someone new about a year after the divorce. Her name is Claire, and she’s a librarian who shares my weird habit of reading legal opinions for fun. When I told her about my courtroom experience, she didn’t laugh at me or think I was crazy. She thought it was impressive.
“You stood up for yourself,” she said. “Even when everyone thought you’d fail. That takes courage.”
“It took desperation,” I corrected. “I didn’t have any other choice.”
“You always have choices,” Claire said. “You could have given up. You could have accepted Rebecca’s version of reality. You could have let her attorney steamroll you. But you didn’t. You chose to fight. And you chose to fight smart.”
We’ve been together for three years now. No rush to get married. We’re just enjoying building something real, something based on honesty and mutual respect.
Sometimes I still see Miranda Ashworth around town. She avoids eye contact, crosses the street when she sees me coming. I don’t blame her. I destroyed her perfect record and cost her six months of her career. But I don’t feel guilty about it either. She broke the rules and got caught. That’s how the system is supposed to work.
Thomas Brennan and I meet for lunch once a month. He still tries to recruit me to his firm and I still decline politely, but he’s become a good friend and a mentor in ways that have nothing to do with law.
“You know what I think about when I’m in court now?” he told me at our last lunch. “I think about you standing there alone, facing down one of the best divorce attorneys in the state, with nothing but a worn briefcase and the truth. It reminds me why I became a lawyer in the first place.”
My grandfather’s briefcase sits on a shelf in my home office now. I don’t use it for work anymore, but I keep it close. Every time I look at it, I remember that day in court. The day Rebecca laughed at me. The day I proved that you don’t need money or power or connections to get justice. You just need courage, preparation, and the willingness to stand up for what’s right.
That’s the lesson my grandfather tried to teach me my whole life.
It just took losing everything to finally understand it.
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