"I don't remember." My voice came out sharper than intended.
The judge, an older woman with weary eyes, leaned forward. "Miss Cross, are you feeling unwell? Do you need a moment?"
"I'm fine, Your Honor. I just..." I glanced at Nathaniel.
The despair in his eyes, he could tell what I was doing and how things could end without my testimony.
He was fighting for his daughter's life. Fighting against the woman who'd nearly killed her. And I was sitting here, hedging, protecting myself while Millie's future hung in the balance.
If I didn't testify fully, Victoria's narrative could win. The accident could be ruled a tragic mistake. The restraining order could be lifted. Millie could be forced to see her again.
My therapy records versus Millie's safety.
It wasn't even close.
"I'm sorry," I said, my voice suddenly clear. "I do remember. I remember exactly."
I turned to face the judge directly. "The night of Millie's school recital, I went to check on her in her bedroom. Mrs. Sterling was already there. She was crouched at Millie's level, and she was telling her..."
I took a breath.
"She said,'Claire came because your daddy pays her. It's her job. She doesn't actually care about you.'She told Millie that people like me don't stay, that we use children to get what we want and then leave." My voice cracked. "And then she said, 'Just like your mother left.'"
The courtroom went silent.
"She told a seven-year-old that her dead mother abandoned her," I continued. "That no one truly loved her. That she'd end up alone."
Miles exhaled slowly. "Thank you, Miss Cross. No further questions."
For one brief, beautiful moment, I felt a flicker of hope. I'd done it. I'd told the truth despite the threat.
Then Diane Rossi stood, and the hope died in my throat.
"Miss Cross." She smiled, and it wasn't a kind smile. "Let's talk aboutyou, shall we?"
"Objection," Miles said. "Relevance?"
"Goes to the witness's credibility, Your Honor. We have evidence that Miss Cross' testimony may be colored by psychological issues that affect her perception."
The judge considered. "I'll allow it. For now."
Rossi approached the witness box with slow, deliberate steps. "Miss Cross, isn't it true you have sealed therapy records indicating severe attachment issues?"
My spine turned to ice; here it was. "Those records are sealed?—"
"Were sealed." She held up a thin folder. "We petitioned to have them unsealed based on their relevance to your credibility as a witness. The judge granted access this morning."
My blood froze in every limb of my body; I couldn’t feel them and struggled to keep my head steady.
"According to your therapist's notes," Rossi continued, her voice ringing through the silent courtroom, "you have 'anxious attachment style resulting in codependent relationships.' You have a documented 'tendency to project maternal feelings onto caregiver roles.' And you have a 'pattern of becoming inappropriately attached to unavailable male figures.'"
I couldn't breathe.
"Having gone to therapy doesn't make me a liar," I managed.
"No one's calling you a liar, Miss Cross. We're questioning whether you can distinguish reality from your own psychological needs." She stepped closer. "You were homeless when Mr. Sterling found you, weren't you?"
"I was facing eviction?—"
