23rd, May 2025
- Black Lawyer
- May 23
- 2 min read
Updated: 7 days ago
Entry Title: The Bruise That Didn’t Match the Furniture
Filed under: Domestic Violence, Custody & Credibility
Dearest Diary,
This morning I arrived in court armed with facts, photos, and the quiet rage of a woman who’s watched too many victims be told they weren’t polite enough to be believed.
My client was one such woman.
She had a bruise the colour of betrayal, and a voice like tea left too long on the counter—subdued, but still strong if you know where to listen.
She’d come to court not for vengeance, but for protection.
A quaint little request in a building that protects reputations more than it does ribs.
Her ex?
Well, he was charming—which, in legal terms, is the male equivalent of holy water.
He wore a tailored suit, a thoughtful frown, and the kind of cologne that says,“I have brunch with my mother.”
She brought hospital records.
He brought a character reference from his tennis coach.
She brought photographs of her neck.
He brought the audacity of flawless diction.
And so the courtroom performed its favourite illusion:Turning pain into performance.
Turning credibility into a costume.
The guardian ad litem said my client was “emotional.”
Darling, she was describing her own strangulation—should she have offered it in a PowerPoint?
The judge never raised his voice.
But silence can be a verdict, too.
By the end of the day, they granted shared custody.
Because he seemed reasonable, and she did not.
Let it be noted for the record: Women are not believed until their trauma fits neatly into the imagination of someone who’s never survived it.
And in the theatre of family court, the quiet woman bleeding is less compelling than the man with a calendar and charisma.
If the law prefers manners to mercy, let us stop calling it justice and start calling it what it truly is—a costume party with case numbers.
I am still, surprisingly, Poised. Petty. Permanently Booked.
Disclaimer: This is a fictionalized account. Any resemblance to real persons or cases is purely coincidental—though despairingly accurate in spirit.
Tag someone who needs reminding: composure is not consent.
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