My father occasionally shook his head sadly.
Priscilla sat between them.
She wore what she apparently considered court-appropriate clothing, but she still had her usual Instagram makeup and kept sneaking glances at her phone whenever the bailiff wasn’t looking.
Then the judge called the case.
My parents’ attorney stood and began explaining why they believed my success somehow created an obligation to Priscilla.
He spoke about family support.
Sacrifice.
Emotional investment.
The opportunities my parents had supposedly created for me.
He described Priscilla as someone “still finding her path.”
Then he described me as the eldest daughter who had a responsibility to share the benefits of her success.
I listened.
I didn’t interrupt.
Because I knew what was coming.
When the attorney finished, Jocelyn glanced at me.
It was time to open the briefcase.
I handed a certified fourteen-year financial spreadsheet to the bailiff.
The courtroom became quiet.
The spreadsheet documented years of financial history.
Every payment.
Every transfer.
Every major expense.
Every contribution.
Or, in my case, the lack of parental contributions.
Jocelyn walked the judge through the records.
My parents had given Priscilla more than $140,000.
They had bought her a car.
Paid expenses.
Helped with rent.
Funded travel.
Supported her various projects.
Meanwhile, my own education had been financed through scholarships, employment, and my own savings.
The beach house had been purchased with money I earned myself.
Jocelyn then presented the bank records showing my mortgage payments.
Insurance premiums.
Property taxes.
Repairs.
Closing costs.
Everything came from me.
My parents’ attorney shifted uneasily in his chair.
The judge continued reading.
Then Jocelyn brought out the messages.
My mother repeatedly contacting me after I refused to give Priscilla access.
My father promising Priscilla a key to a property he didn’t own.
Messages discussing how she would use the beach house for her social media business.
Then came the Instagram post.
