And Just Like That

Twenty- Two

The courthouse smelled of polish and rain. The air was heavy, as if even the walls knew what kind of day it was. Éabha sat on the hard wooden bench in the corridor, hands wrapped around a paper cup of tea that had long gone cold. She didn't drink it — she just needed something to hold on to.

Nine weeks. She was nine weeks pregnant.
And today, she was facing the man who had taken so much from her childhood.

Beside her, Edel reached over and took her hand. "You're doing brilliantly, love," she whispered, her voice the kind of soft that comes from a mother's steadiness. "You don't have to be brave every second. Just keep breathing."

Éabha nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Across the hall, John was talking quietly with another solicitor, his dark suit pressed, his expression calm but sharp. He'd been her lawyer for months now, though he'd told her more than once she didn't need to thank him. "You're family now," he'd said when she'd tried. "That's all that matters."

Katie sat on Éabha's other side, her knee bouncing anxiously, hands clasped tight. "I'm so proud of you," she whispered. "So, so proud."

Éabha smiled faintly, her stomach turning. The baby. Johnny's baby. Their secret, beating quietly beneath her heart while the world outside felt like it might fall apart. Johnny didn't even know this was the day; she'd told him the hearing was later in the month so he wouldn't worry during training. He'd texted her that morning, a "good morning, baby" followed by a heart and told her what he was having for breakfast and that he loved her and baby.

She'd stared at the message longer than she meant to. He had no idea how much strength those simple words gave her.

The courtroom doors opened. A clerk called out her name.

John turned to her, nodding once. "It's time, Éabha."

Her legs felt unsteady when she stood, but Edel's hand on her back kept her upright. "We're right behind you," Edel murmured.

The courtroom was colder than she'd expected. She could feel the tremor of her pulse in her wrists as she sat down. The judge, calm and distant, shuffled papers; the hum of whispered voices filled the room like static. She tried not to look across the aisle, tried not to see the man she'd once called father.

Instead, she focused on John's voice — steady, practiced, clear. He introduced the case, his tone respectful but firm, every word shaped to protect her. When it was her turn to speak, he gave her a small nod.

Éabha rose, clutching the statement she'd written the night before, her handwriting neat but shaky. Her voice wavered at first, but as she spoke, it steadied. She talked about fear. About survival. About finally deciding that silence wasn't going to win anymore. She didn't look at him — she didn't need to. She was speaking to the judge, to the room, to herself.

When she finished, her throat felt raw, but lighter — like she'd set something down she'd been carrying for years.

The silence afterward was heavy, then the judge thanked her gently and dismissed her to sit again. As she lowered herself back beside Edel, her knees almost gave out. But John caught her eye and mouthed, Well done.

Katie squeezed her hand so hard it hurt. "You did it," she whispered.

Éabha blinked, tears slipping down her cheeks before she even realized they'd fallen. Edel pulled her close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "You did everything right, love. It's over now. It's really over."

⸻

Later, when they stepped outside, the rain had finally stopped. The air smelled new, washed clean. Reporters lingered across the street, but John steered her past them quietly, shielding her with his jacket. They reached his car, and he turned to her, expression softening.