5th April, 2025
- Black Lawyer
- Apr 5
- 2 min read
Updated: Apr 6
Entry No. 179: “The Roast Chicken of Intrusion”
Filed under: Holy Drama & Unwelcome Hospitality
Dearest Diary,
Some cases test the boundaries of law.
Others test the boundaries of property lines, marital delusion, and what one considers a “loving gesture.”
This was the latter.
I had the honour (burden) of representing a woman named Camilla—graceful, long-suffering, and one restraining order away from peace.
Her soon-to-be ex-husband, Benedict, was the former CFO of the family’s multigenerational Christian bookstore chain: Bibles, Bells & Blessings. (Yes, that’s the actual name. Yes, there’s a jingle. Yes, I wept.)
Now, Camilla had filed for divorce after Benedict, during a prayer circle, came out as gay. That part? Fine. We love growth. We support authenticity.
The problem?
Benedict had also—unbeknownst to the choir and several accountants—been funding his boyfriend’s art residency in Ibiza, a series of lavish couple’s spa retreats, and a leather sectional via fraudulent “youth ministry expenses.”
The receipts read like an episode of Real Housewives of Revelations.
When the family discovered the embezzlement, they fired him from the business.
Benedict, in response, sued them for discrimination. Yes. The man who committed fraud was now crying foul.
But that’s not even the part that kept me up at night, Diary.
He refused to move out.
He lived in the garage apartment, which—according to him—was “technically detached, spiritually united.”
He would routinely enter the main house, unannounced, like a judgmental phantom with a key.
On Tuesdays, he’d roast a lemon chicken.
On Thursdays, risotto.
On Sundays, a charcuterie board for a family that no longer claimed him.
“I just want to nourish my babies,” he said once, mid-litigation.
Camilla told me the children sobbed when they saw him sautéing shallots. Not out of joy—out of confusion and dread.
And when asked why he hadn’t sought alternative housing or gainful employment, he revealed (in court, mind you) that he was now pursuing massage therapy certification.
“It's healing,” he told the judge.“For whom?” the judge asked, genuinely terrified.
Meanwhile, his lawsuit against the family dragged on—complete with exhibits that included a PowerPoint titled “Queer, Fired, and Fabulous: My Journey to Justice.”
Diary, I’ve seen many things in family court.But never before have I filed a motion for exclusive use of a fridge.
Camilla couldn’t buy groceries without them mysteriously becoming a midnight frittata.
Eventually, we secured an order barring Benedict from entering the main house. He responded by installing a Ring camera pointed at the driveway and sending inspirational haikus via group text.
He has since enrolled in a two-week massage seminar in Sedona. The family business has replaced him with a retired nun who specializes in QuickBooks. Camilla now sleeps soundly with a deadbolt and an air fryer.
Some divorces end in heartbreak.Others end in unsolicited casseroles and cease and desist letters.
I remain, as ever—Poised. Petty. Permanently Unavailable for Family Dinner.
Disclaimer: This diary entry is a fictionalized satire. Any resemblance to real people, chicken recipes, or disgraced bookstore CFOs is entirely coincidental and spiritually inadvisable.
Tag a friend who’s ever received a love meal they never asked for.
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