But he forgot one thing. I was a graphic designer. I lived my life on a computer. And Daniel, in his arrogance, had never changed the passwords to the family cloud account because he thought I was too stupid to look.
One night, unable to sleep, I logged in. I wasn’t looking for photos. I was looking for the backup files from his phone.
I found the group chat with his mother and father.
I read for hours, vomiting twice into the trash can by the desk. It wasn’t just hatred. It was a conspiracy. They had been planning this for months. They discussed how to isolate me. How to make me feel insane. How to ensure that if we divorced, they would get full custody of the baby because I was “unfit.”
I saved everything. I printed it. I put it on three different flash drives.
Then I called the prosecutor.
The day of the trial, the air in the courtroom was stifling.
Daniel sat at the defense table. He looked good. He was wearing a sharp navy suit, his hair perfectly gelled. He didn’t look like a monster. He looked like the man I married.
Behind him sat Agnes and Victor, clutching bibles, looking like pious saints. Lauren sat on the end of the row, looking pale and sick.
Judge Kimberly Holt entered. She was a woman known for her intellect and her lack of patience for theatrics.
The trial began.
Daniel’s lawyer, Mr. Sterling, started with an opening statement that painted me as a hysteric.
“Sarah Mercer has a history of anxiety,” Sterling boomed. “She was overwhelmed by pregnancy. On the morning in question, she attacked her husband in a hormonal rage. He pushed her away to protect himself. It was a tragedy, yes, but not a crime.”
I dug my nails into my palms. Liar.
Then, it was the prosecution’s turn. Continue reading…
