My husband laughed at me in the courthouse hallway because I couldn’t afford a lawyer. What he didn’t know was who was about to walk through that door.
The hallway outside Courtroom 4 was packed, heels clicking against marble floors, voices echoing off high ceilings. I stood there with a worn folder in my hands—years of my marriage reduced to documents.
“I’m telling you, this will be over before lunch,” Eduardo said loudly to his attorney. “She doesn’t even have a lawyer.”
His lawyer chuckled. “Then this should be simple. People who represent themselves usually don’t know what they’re doing.”
Pamela, draped over his arm in a too-tight cream dress, laughed along with them. They were already celebrating. In their minds, I was the naïve wife who would leave with nothing.
But Eduardo had forgotten something about me.
Something that was walking through the security gate at that exact moment.
We met in law school. He studied business administration; I studied law. I had been one of the top students in my class, known for my skill in debate and litigation. But when my mother became seriously ill, I paused my plans to specialize. I worked instead. Eduardo promised we would build something together.
