“As to the DNA test requested by the petitioner,” the judge continued, flipping through the report on his bench, “the results are conclusive. Mr. Enrico Ferrara is, in fact, the biological father of the minor child Clara Muniz.”
It wasn’t news to anyone, but a quiet murmur moved through the room. I inhaled slowly, fighting the emotions rising in my throat.
I had known from the beginning there would be no other result.
But hearing it said out loud—coldly, formally, in this room—made it more real.
Against my will, my eyes went back to Enrico.
For the first time that day, he looked directly at me.
Our gazes collided—sharp with resentment, heavy with questions never asked and answers never given.
And in that brief, violent second, I saw something in his eyes I had never seen before.
Vulnerability.
It lasted less than a heartbeat—but it was enough to leave me shaken.
The judge kept speaking, but his voice faded into the pounding in my ears. I knew this was only the first battle of many. And what terrified me most was the realization that despite everything, I still wasn’t ready to face Enrico Ferrara like this.
Not with the past still alive inside me.
But there was no turning back.
I had to find the strength to fight with everything I had—even if it meant confronting my own feelings, my own history, and the man I had never fully managed to forget.
The judge adjusted his glasses and motioned for Enrico’s attorney to begin.
My heartbeat spiked again as the man rose with confident ease. Enrico didn’t look at me now—his eyes were forward, his expression blank, unreadable.
“Your Honor,” his attorney began, polished but firm, “we are here today facing an injustice. My client, Mr. Enrico Ferrara, was deliberately deprived of all contact with his daughter for five years. During that time, he had no knowledge of herexistence, losing irreplaceable, precious moments of her life. This deprivation has caused emotional harm not only to my client, but potentially to the child as well.”
Heat rushed into my face.
I wanted to scream that it wasn’t true—that I never denied him anything, that he denied us first—
But I swallowed every word, gripping my trembling hands on the table as the attorney continued.
“There is no doubt that the best outcome for the child is meaningful involvement with both parents,” he said. “However, given the financial, educational, and emotional stability my client can provide, we are requesting that primary custody be awarded to Mr. Ferrara. He has the resources necessary to ensure the child has a safe, balanced, healthy life in every respect.”
I shut my eyes for a brief moment, fighting humiliation and rage.
I had never felt so wronged in my life.
My attorney touched my arm—steadying me—and I forced myself to breathe.
It was our turn.
“Your Honor,” my attorney began, respectful but firm, “the statements presented by opposing counsel are distorted and unfair. My client, Ms. Valentina Muniz, never acted with the intention of depriving the child of her father. On the contrary, her actions were shaped by painful circumstances imposed by Mr. Ferrara himself—when he abandoned her at the altar while she was pregnant, leaving her without emotional or financial support.”
The room seemed to tighten.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Enrico shift slightly—uncomfortable, irritated by the direct mention of the past he always wanted buried.
“For five years,” my attorney continued, “Ms. Muniz raised Clara alone, providing a loving, stable, emotionally healthy environment. She is an exemplary mother, fully capable of raising her daughter with security and consistent care. Parental fitness cannot be measured by financial power alone—especially when the child has never lacked stability or support up to this point.”
Tears burned behind my eyes—not only because of his words, but because of the memories that came with them. The nights Clara and I survived. The days we rebuilt. The life I fought for.
