2nd, June 2025
- Black Lawyer
- 3 days ago
- 2 min read
Entry Title: The Custody Order That Cried Istanbul
Filed under: International Delusions & Passport-Level Petty
Dearest Diary,
There are cases that feel like legal puzzles, neat little cubes waiting to be solved. And then there are cases that feel like you’ve stepped into a psychological thriller sponsored by Delta Airlines, Interpol, and the World Health Organization. This was the latter.
The judge awarded my client—let’s call her Clarissa—the rightful custody of her two children after a bruising custody battle with her ex, a man whose ego could be seen from space and whose parenting instincts ranked somewhere between absentee landlord and a Bond villain.
But rather than hand the children over with grace (or basic human decency), Father of the Year booked a one-way flight to Turkey with both minors in tow and texted Clarissa, “You’ll thank me one day.” The audacity came with a passport stamp.
Clarissa was left standing in a courtroom clutching a Final Order while her actual children were somewhere near the Bosphorus eating kebabs under assumed names.
Naturally, we did what lawyers do—we filed.
We motioned.
We pleaded.
And then she paid. Clarissa burned through savings like it was a bonfire of betrayal.
Thousands gone.
Her retirement plan?
Replaced by legal bills and the haunting glow of FaceTime, which was the only access she had to her children for months.
Ironically, the father still paid child support on time, as if that direct deposit could cover kidnapping.
And here’s where the tale shifts from tragic to unhinged.
When we finally got the kids back (through a mixture of federal pressure, embassy involvement, and a dash of divine vengeance), they looked at their mother like she was a distant aunt who overwatered plants.
They’d been alienated, emotionally disinfected of her memory by a man who believed he was the protagonist in a novel no one wanted to read.
The court ordered reunification therapy—but not just for Clarissa and the children. No, dear reader, also between the children and the man who abducted them, because nothing says healing like being told to emotionally reconnect with your captor.
Three weeks later, mid-session, Father Ghosted.
Poof.
Gone.
No forwarding address, no trace, no more child support.
Not even a goodbye email.
Just a message from his lawyer that said, “He’s unavailable at this time.”
Unavailable? Who is he, Beyoncé?
Clarissa now spends her days rebuilding tiny bridges with her kids, unpacking suitcases of emotional debris while everyone else pretends this was a simple case of misunderstanding. I’ve seen less psychological damage in Cold War espionage.
I remain, as ever—
Wiser. Warier. Internationally Worn Out.
Disclaimer: This entry is a fictionalized satire. Any resemblance to actual people, events, or lawsuits is entirely coincidental—but not impossible.
Tag someone who swears their ex “would never do that” until he boards a flight to Istanbul.
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