But I couldn’t resist one last move.
That weekend, I called a locksmith, the original one, the guy who’ unknowingly changed the locks for Emily.
I explained the situation, showed him the new court filings and mortgage documents, and asked if he remembered the job.
He did.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, chuckling awkwardly. “She said it was her late grandfather’s house or something.”
I asked if he’d mind testifying just in case.
He agreed.
I didn’t need it for the civil suit, but I did send a friendly notice to my mother and sister through my lawyer reminding them that using false statements to obtain locksmith services was in fact illegal and that a witness was prepared to testify under oath.
No response.
Not until the night before the court date.
That’s when I got the call.
It was my mom crying.
“Nate,” she sobbed. “Please, just please don’t do this to us.”
I didn’t yell.
I didn’t curse.
I didn’t even raise my voice.
I just asked one question.
“Did you ever for even a second feel bad about what you did?”
Silence.
Then, “We just thought you’d understand.”
“I did,” I said.
I understood that the moment I stopped being useful, I stopped being family.
Then I hung up.
And the next morning, I walked into court.
The courtroom was colder than I expected.
Not physically, just an atmosphere.
Beige walls, fluorescent lights, and a judge who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.
Still, to me, it felt like a cathedral, a place where truth might finally mean something.
My lawyer, Michelle, sat beside me, calm and confident, flipping through her binder like it was a paperback novel.
Across the aisle sat my mother and Emily.
No lawyer, just the two of them, dressed like they were headed to church.