— “Your statement is nothing but a noisy lie,” said Marcelo’s attorney, a perfectly groomed man named Ortega.

He stared at me like I was a stain on his custom-tailored suit, imported from Madrid and worth several thousand euros.

Marcelo, nearly divorced from me, chuckled softly. Beside him sat Clara, his new wife, the so-called “better version” of me. She covered her mouth with dainty fingers, but her trembling shoulders crossed her laughter. Together, they relished the show.

“My client asserts that Mr. Rossi consistently diverted funds from the company into hidden accounts,” my lawyer, Luis Morel, a short man with sharp, clever eyes, responded consistently.

“What kind of accounts?” Ortega raised his brows in mock surprise, addressing the judge. “Do you mean perhaps the boy’s nanny? Or his math tutor? Marcelo,” he called loudly, “did you pay for Pablo’s tutoring?”

“Certainly. Pablo deserves the best. Sadly, Verónica always denied him things.”

A li:e. A li:e thick and suffocating like tar. My fists tightened under the desk, nails piercing my palms. I recalled every receipt, every sacrifice I made for Pablo’s school fees, while Marcelo bought Clara another Cartier bracelet, labeled as a “business cost.”

“Additionally, we demand full custody,” Ortega pressed, aiming to destr0y me.

“The mother suffers emotional instability, shown by these baseless charges. Such instability could seriously harm the child’s development.”

Clara’s laughter nearly escaped control. She leaned close to Marcelo, whispered, and he burst out laughing, this time not hiding it. Right there, in front of all.

Showing the world how pathetic I reappeared.

The judge, an older woman with a weary, unclear expression, lifted her eyes from the file.

“The court has a statement that may shed light on the family’s emotional climate.”

Ortega smirked.

“Of course, Your Honor. We’re ready.”

He assumed it came from neighbors, whom Clara bribed with cakes while labeling me “neurotic.” Or maybe the school psychologist, who received generous donations from Marcelo for office repairs.

But the judge opened a different folder.

— “It is the transcript of an interview with nine-year-old Pablo Rossi, managed by a forensic psychologist with a social worker present.”

Marcelo’s face stayed calm. Clara fixed her hair elegantly, smiling with bold confidence. They believed Pablo would defend them. They trusted he would never betray them…

The judge cleared her throat. The room, once buzzing with sneers, fell into heavy silence.

—“The court has the transcript of the interview conducted with minor Pablo Márquez, under supervision. I will read excerpts.”

Attorney Ortega laced his fingers, convinced it was routine. Marcelo reclined with arrogant ease, certain of victory. Clara radiated superiority, certain nothing could touch her.

But the first words landed like hammer blows:

—“Dad always shouts at Mom. He calls her stupid and useless. But I see Mom cry in the bathroom, trying to conceal it. Sometimes Dad leaves with Mrs. Clara, returning late. I stay alone.”

A wave of murmurs rippled. Ortega’s face reddened, Marcelo’s jaw backed. Clara’s confident smile cracked for the first time.

The judge’s voice kept steady:

— “I don’t want to live with Dad. He neglects me. He only shows me off. Mom helps with my homework and reads me stories at night. She doesn’t yell. I want to stay with her.”

My chest thundered. Tears pricked but I held them back. In his simple truth, Pablo had spoken the words I failed to prove after months of humiliation.

Ortega sprang up:

— “Your Honor, the child was exploited…!”

“Enough!” the judge’s voice sliced the air. “The child spoke freely. The psychologist confirms his feelings are genuine.”

Marcelo, pale as chalk, forced a smile.

— “Pablo is only a boy… he doesn’t know.”

The judge’s stare hardened him:

— “Exactly because he is a child, he knows what he feels. Children don’t fabricate pain.”

At that instant, the walls imprisoning me destr0yed. Marcelo and Clara’s facade beneath a nine-year-old’s testimony.

The ruling came sharp and decisive:

— “Primary custody is granted to the mother, Mrs. Verónica Ibáñez. The father shall have limited visits, under therapy.”

A collective breath swept the hall. Ortega bowed, beaten. Clara turned away, suppressing rage. Marcelo sagged like a defeated commander.

I, however, lifted my head. For the first time in ages, I could breathe.

I hadn’t only won the case. I had reclaimed my dignity. And above everything, my son’s future.