The courthouse smells like old wood and broken families. I sit at the defendant's table, hands folded in my lap, watching my parents walk through the double doors like they own the place. Mom's wearing Chanel—fake, probably, but convincing from a distance. Dad's in a tailored suit that doesn't quite fit his expanding waistline. They don't look at me. Haven't looked at me in three years. Not since the day they told me I was dead to them. My lawyer, Patricia Chen, leans over. "Ready?" I nod, though my throat feels like sandpaper. Ready as I'll ever be to face the two people who gave me life, then tried to sell it to the highest bidder. The judge enters. We rise. The whole courtroom theater begins. Their lawyer stands first—some slick guy in his forties with too much hair gel. "Your Honor, my clients, Robert and Diana Hartwell, are here today seeking what is rightfully owed to them. For twenty-five years, they provided for their daughter. Fed her, clothed her, educated her. They gave her everything." I almost laugh. Everything. Sure. "Now, after three years of complete abandonment, they're simply asking for what any parent deserves—financial support in their time of need. The defendant, Maya Hartwell, has the means. She has a successful career, a comfortable life. Meanwhile, her aging parents struggle to make ends meet." Aging. Dad's fifty-three. Mom's fifty. They're not exactly on death's door. "They're not asking for charity," Hair Gel continues. "They're asking for compensation. A modest sum of ten thousand dollars per month for the next thirty years, totaling three point six million dollars. This represents a fair return on their investment—" "Investment?" The word escapes before I can stop it. The judge raises an eyebrow. "Ms. Hartwell, you'll have your turn." I sink back into my chair. Patricia touches my arm gently. Hair Gel smirks. "As I was saying, a fair return on their investment in raising a child. Additionally, they seek a lump sum of two hundred thousand dollars for emotional distress caused by their daughter's abandonment." My hands are shaking now. I press them flat against the table. "The plaintiff's case is simple," Hair Gel says. "Maya Hartwell owes her parents. She cut them off without explanation, without warning. She refuses to take their calls, blocked their numbers, moved without telling them her address. This cruelty, this abandonment, deserves compensation. We have documentation of their financial struggles, medical bills, the costs they incurred raising her. We ask the court to enforce basic human decency and filial responsibility." He sits down with the confidence of someone who thinks he's already won. The judge turns to Patricia. "Ms. Chen?" Patricia stands. She's wearing a simple gray suit, no flash, all substance. "Your Honor, the plaintiffs' case relies on one fundamental lie—that they were loving parents who were mysteriously abandoned. The truth is far different. And my client is prepared to tell it." She gestures to me. My cue. I stand on legs that feel like water. "Ms. Hartwell," the judge says, "please proceed." I clear my throat. "Your Honor, my parents didn't invest in raising a daughter. They invested in creating a product. And when that product refused to be sold, they discarded it." Mom's jaw tightens. Dad stares straight ahead. "From the time I was sixteen, everything they did was calculated. The clothes they bought me—designer labels, always visible logos. The car they leased in my name—a BMW I didn't want and couldn't afford. The country club membership, the charity galas, the riding lessons, the vacation photos in Santorini and Monaco." I take a breath. The courtroom is silent. "None of it was for me. It was all bait. They were fishing for a rich husband, and I was the lure." "That's absurd!" Mom's voice cracks across the room. The judge shoots her a warning look. "They spent every penny they had," I continue, "and then some. They maxed out credit cards, took out loans, refinanced the house twice. All to maintain the illusion that I was from wealth. That I was the kind of girl who belonged in those circles." My voice is steadier now. Anger is a good anchor. "They threw parties we couldn't afford. Bought me jewelry on credit. Enrolled me in an expensive private college—not because they valued my education, but because that's where the rich boys were. Every choice, every purchase, every decision was made with one goal: marry me off to money." Patricia nods encouragingly. "When I was twenty-two, they found their target. Harrison Whitmore. Old money, trust fund, family estate. He was thirty-five, recently divorced, and interested in a pretty young thing who seemed to come from the right background." I can still see Harrison's face. The way he looked at me like I was a vintage car he was considering purchasing. "My parents were thrilled. They planned the whole thing. Arranged 'accidental' meetings. Encouraged the relationship. When he proposed after six months, they cried tears of joy. Finally, their investment was about to pay off." I look directly at my mother for the first time. She won't meet my eyes. "There was just one problem. I said no."