“Don’t embarrass us,” my mother hissed as we walked through the courthouse doors. “Just stay quiet and let the real lawyers handle this.”
I didn’t respond. I just kept walking, my heels clicking against the marble floor with a confidence I’d spent years building.
My father wouldn’t even look at me, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance, like I was a stain he couldn’t bear to acknowledge. Nothing new there.
My name is Anna. I’m 31 years old, and for most of my life I’ve been the family disappointment. The dropout. The failure. The one they pretended didn’t exist when relatives asked about their children.
We were at the courthouse in Omaha, Nebraska, because my parents were trying to evict their tenant, a woman named Clare, who’d had the audacity to ask for repairs before paying rent on a building that was falling apart. My parents owned three rental properties, all inherited from my grandfather, and they ran them like feudal lords collecting taxes.
Clare had been living in one of their apartments for two years, always paying on time, until the ceiling started leaking and black mold appeared in her daughter’s bedroom. She’d withheld rent and asked for the repairs to be done first. My parents responded by filing for eviction.
“She signed a contract,” my mother had ranted over the phone two weeks ago. “She doesn’t get to just stop paying because she’s picky about a little moisture.”
A little moisture. That’s what she called black mold.
I’d heard about the case through my younger sister, Melissa, who still lived at home despite being 28. She’d mentioned it casually during one of our rare phone calls, not knowing I’d spent the last seven years clawing my way through law school. Working three jobs. Sleeping in my car more times than I could count. Finally passing the bar exam.
I’d done it all alone, without a single dollar or word of encouragement from them. They didn’t even know I’d gone to college, let alone become an attorney.
The day I’d walked out of their house at 19, my father had thrown my belongings onto the front lawn.
“You’re nothing,” he’d shouted. “You’ll never amount to anything without us.”
My mother had stood in the doorway with her arms crossed.
“Don’t come crawling back when you fail.”
I hadn’t. Even when I was sleeping in my car behind a grocery store, surviving on vending machine snacks, I didn’t go back. Even when I was so exhausted from working overnight shifts that I could barely stay awake in class, I didn’t ask them for help. I’d rather eat nothing than swallow my pride and beg from people who’d made it clear I was worthless.
Now, as we walked toward the courtroom, I watched my mother smooth down her expensive blouse and adjust the pearls around her neck. She’d always cared more about appearances than anything else. My father walked beside her in his tailored suit, the picture of respectability.
They’d told everyone at their country club that they only had one daughter: Melissa, who worked as a receptionist at their dentist’s office and still let them control every aspect of her life.
“I don’t know why you even came,” my mother muttered as we approached the courtroom doors. “This doesn’t concern you.”
I smiled, but said nothing. Let them think I was just here to watch. Let them think I was still the broken girl they’d thrown away.
Inside the courtroom, the air was thick with tension. Clare sat at the defendant’s table, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She was a small woman in her forties, wearing a dress that had seen better days. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and I could see the exhaustion etched into every line of her face. This wasn’t just about an apartment to her. It was about keeping a roof over her daughter’s head.
My parents took their seats on the plaintiff’s side, and my mother gestured for me to sit in the gallery behind them. I walked past her without acknowledging the command and headed straight toward Clare’s table. I could feel my mother’s eyes burning into my back, could practically hear her mind racing to figure out what I was doing.
“Excuse me,” I said quietly to Clare. “I’m your attorney.”
Her eyes widened.
“I… I couldn’t afford an attorney. I was going to represent myself.”
“Consider this pro bono,” I said, setting my briefcase down. “I’ve reviewed your case, and you have every right to withhold rent until those repairs are made. Your landlords violated the implied warranty of habitability.”
Behind me, I heard my mother’s sharp intake of breath. My father’s voice came next, low and furious.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I turned to face them, and for the first time in 12 years, I looked my parents directly in the eye.
“I’m doing my job.”
My mother’s face had gone pale, then red.
“You can’t be serious. You’re not a lawyer.”
“Actually, I am.” I pulled out my bar card and held it up. “I passed the bar exam two years ago. I’ve been working at a firm downtown, mostly handling tenant-rights cases. This is exactly my area of expertise.”
My father stood up, his hands clenched into fists.
“This is ridiculous. You dropped out of community college. You’re a homeless bum we threw out for being a waste of space.”
“I was homeless for a while, yes,” I said calmly. “Thanks to you. But I worked my way through school. I graduated from college, then law school. I did it all without a single cent from you.”
The judge entered before my father could respond, and everyone scrambled to their seats.
Judge Patricia Hullbrook was in her sixties, with steel-gray hair and a no-nonsense demeanor that made even experienced attorneys nervous. She looked over the courtroom, her eyes settling on me with a flicker of recognition.
“Counsel, please approach,” she said.
I walked up to the bench, and my parents’ attorney, a man named Gerald who charged $500 an hour, joined me.
Judge Hullbrook looked between us, then down at the papers in front of her.
“I see we have representation for the defendant now,” she said. “Counselor?”
“Anna Thompson, Your Honor,” I said. “I’m representing Clare Mitchell in this matter.”
Judge Hullbrook’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“Anna Thompson. I thought that name looked familiar. Didn’t you argue the Riverside Apartments case last year?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“You won that case, if I recall. The tenants got everything they asked for—repairs, rent reimbursement, and damages.”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
She looked at my parents, then back at me, and something shifted in her expression.
“This should be interesting. Let’s proceed.”
As I walked back to my table, I caught my mother’s expression. Pure horror mixed with disbelief. My father looked like he’d been slapped. Melissa, sitting behind them, had her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.
I sat down next to Clare, who was staring at me like I’d just walked on water.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Just tell the truth when you’re asked questions,” I said. “That’s all you need to do.”
Gerald stood up first, presenting my parents’ case. He painted Clare as a difficult tenant who was looking for excuses not to pay rent, who was making mountains out of molehills regarding minor maintenance issues. He showed photos of the apartment that had been taken years ago when it was first rented—pristine and clean.
“The plaintiffs have always maintained their properties to the highest standards,” Gerald said smoothly. “They’re responsible landlords who simply want what they’re owed—the rent that was agreed upon in a legally binding contract.”
When it was my turn, I stood up and walked to the evidence table. I’d spent the last two weeks gathering everything I needed: photos of the leaking ceiling, the black mold, the broken windows that wouldn’t close properly, medical records showing that Clare’s daughter had developed respiratory problems, maintenance requests that had been ignored for months, a city inspector’s report that condemned parts of the building as uninhabitable.
“Your Honor,” I said, laying out the evidence piece by piece, “the defendant didn’t withhold rent out of spite or convenience. She withheld it because the apartment she was paying for had become a health hazard. Nebraska law is clear. Landlords must maintain properties in a condition fit for human habitation. When they fail to do so, tenants have the legal right to withhold rent until repairs are made.”
I walked the judge through every violation, every ignored request, every broken promise. My parents had collected rent for months while knowing the building was falling apart. They’d threatened Clare when she complained, told her she could leave if she didn’t like it, fully aware that she couldn’t afford to break her lease and move somewhere else.
“This isn’t about a ‘difficult tenant,’” I said. “This is about landlords who saw their tenants as nothing more than a revenue stream, who cared more about collecting money than ensuring the people living in their buildings were safe.”
Judge Hullbrook listened intently, making notes, asking pointed questions. When I showed her the medical records for Clare’s daughter, I saw her jaw tighten.
“Counselor,” she said to Gerald, “did your clients know about the mold?”
Gerald shuffled his papers.
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