I discovered the term “Guardian Ad Litem” for the first time—a court-appointed, unbiased attorney who champions the child’s voice. She must meet both parents, observe our bonds with Samuel, and inspect our living conditions.
Freshly settled in my in-law suite by the lake, I got a call from my attorney: the GAL would visit soon. Panic hit me hard—I owned nothing there. My entire life, every cherished belonging, stayed behind in the marital home I had lovingly transformed into a Pottery Barn haven for our family.
With days ticking down, my incredible friends rallied a team. They pooled furniture and essentials, hauling sofas, mattresses, bedding, and kitchenware in their husbands’ pickups and trailers. Their love and effort overwhelmed me, ensuring I’d pass her judgment. Susan kept venting as we set up my two-bedroom rental: “It’s bullshit—she’ll see Mitchell in the home you decorated, making him look perfect!” We all knew the truth, but I jumped this unfair hurdle anyway.
On the day Irene Herman was due, she called ten minutes before to cancel. Devastation crushed me; my friends and I had toiled late nights to ready this temporary home. Exhausted and furious, I demanded why. Chatty as ever, she revealed she’d already toured Mitchell’s place—our beautiful, spotless home—and met Samuel. “It’s stunning,” she gushed. I wanted to scream, “I know—I created it all!” But I bit my tongue.
She praised Samuel as sweet and wise beyond his years: “Talking to him feels like conversing with an adult in a child’s body—it’s astonishing.” Pride swelled in me; I already knew my boy’s magic. Then she mentioned dining with them at Golden Corral and urged me to do the same on my Friday with Samuel. When I pressed for a reschedule at my place, she dodged: “We’ll wait.” In three months on my case, she never came.
Friday arrived; I picked up Samuel and explained our dinner with Irene. He yelled, “I already met her—I don’t like her!” Laughing, I asked why. “She flirts with Dad and asked him to help her into his SUV.” I knew Mitchell was charming her to sway the evaluation.
We met her outside Golden Corral—a woman in her 70s with white hair, caked makeup, outdated clothes, but dripping in pricey jewelry. She dominated the conversation at the table; Samuel, having met her multiple times, ignored her. When he fetched seconds, I questioned repeating the restaurant. “The food’s great,” she said, “and I want to compare Samuel’s interactions in the same spot.” It made no sense—my seven-year-old found her “annoying” and clammed up. Hardly fair.
I footed her bill, and she expected it. Samuel later confirmed Mitchell paid last time too. I wondered: Does she skip home visits for free meals? She never quizzed me, just lectured generally on divorce’s toll on kids—obvious stuff. I cared about my child, my case.
As we finished, I pushed for her home visit. Again, she evaded: “We’ll see.” Baffled by her disinterest, I asked about next steps. “I’ll write a report with recommendations to the judge—ready by Monday.” How? She’d met me once, Mitchell repeatedly, and skipped my home entirely.
Hoping she’d seen Samuel’s deep bond with me, I asked if she had kids. One grown son, she said, raised by a live-in nanny while she and her late attorney husband built their careers. That gutted me—motherhood is my sacred duty; I’d never outsource it. Our views clashed; would it doom me?
Her parting shot sealed it: “Jocelyn, get a life—don’t dedicate yours to your child.” That moment, I knew this woman—who hadn’t even raised her own—wasn’t in my corner. My heart ached for the injustice, but Samuel’s love fueled my fight.
I called Susan and my friends, spilling every shocking detail about Irene. They erupted in fury, mirroring my outrage. We brainstormed desperately—who could we report this blatant bias to? I looped in my new attorney, Macy, who’d been on my case for three weeks. She harbored her own grudge against Irene, recounting how she’d once publicly shut her down at a conference, correcting her errors in front of everyone. Hope flickered in me; Macy promised to file something Monday, blocking Irene’s report from the judge.
Samuel’s call shattered me—he missed me terribly, begging when I’d come home. Worse, he asked if Irene had “fixed this” like she promised, convinced I’d return soon. My heart splintered; what lies had she fed him or was this an indication things were going to turn around? He revealed she’d rummaged through Mitchell’s office collectibles, including old Bibles, lingering late into the night as he drifted to sleep.
Susan rang the next morning, quizzing me on Irene’s car. I described the maroon sedan I’d seen her drive from Golden Corral. “That’s it,” Susan said—she’d spotted it parked at my marital home all night, still there as we spoke. Rage boiled over: Had this court-appointed GAL truly spent the night with my estranged husband while my son slept under the same roof? What twisted tactics was Mitchell using to seduce this lonely 70-something?
I phoned Macy, livid and disgusted. She laughed at first, then sobered, vowing to report it to a GAL evaluator and draft a letter for my review. I’d pay the evaluator $1,800 directly—Macy knew I lacked funds, but my family covered it, and she assured we’d reclaim it from Mitchell. Monday, she fired off the letter to the evaluator and Irene, then motioned to halt Irene’s report amid these grave concerns.
I fetched the evaluator’s certified letter—a powerhouse document detailing GAL rules, my complaints, Irene’s lapses, and her overnight stay. He knew her personally, calling her “awful” as he wished me luck. Yet the judge ignored our plea, scheduling a hearing the next week to review her report. How could he dismiss a certified critique from a trainer of GALs, backed by affidavits?
Court day arrived; Irene sat near Mitchell, limping to the podium. “Excuse me, Judge—I stubbed my toe on Mitchell’s stairs yesterday,” she announced, unwittingly confessing everything. The judge skipped probing her overnight stay, asking only for her synopsis. “Samuel adores both parents,” she said, “but I recommend he remain in the marital home with his capable father.” No knocks on me—just praise for Mitchell. I seethed, aching to confront this charmed, lonely woman.
Macy raised the evaluator’s letter and sought fee reimbursement. The judge overruled without explanation. Defeat crushed me—Macy’s vendetta wasted my family’s money, achieving nothing. This corrupt system, this small-town county, thrived on connections, not justice or law. With ironclad evidence ignored, who could I turn to? No one.
Disheartened but resolute, Macy promised we’d depose Mitchell and Irene: “I’ll nail her.” Fine, but would it help? For mediation, she’d picked Rene Stevenson with Mitchell’s attorney. “She’s cool—the type you’d grab a drink with,” Macy said. Unprofessional vibes unsettled me, but if Macy trusted her, maybe it’d turn the tide. My love for Samuel fueled my weary fight onward.
Soon after the hearing, Macy’s office demanded I replenish my retainer. I lacked the funds, and she knew it—she saw how Mitchell screwed me and Samuel over, yet showed zero compassion. A day later, she emailed a cold ultimatum: Pay by tomorrow, or she’d motion to withdraw as my counsel. Betrayal stabbed deeper; I screamed into the void, “Doesn’t anyone help those in need?!” My family, already stretched thin by my pleas, couldn’t give more. Macy could chase Mitchell for fees later, but she insisted on cash now.
I scrambled for loans, but my $420 monthly school paycheck and seven-year work gap disqualified me. Mitchell had ditched paying on my credit cards which was against the Domestic Relations Standing Order to keep things status quo and it tanked my credit score. Desperate, I pawned belongings for quick cash, but it fell short. Macy filed to exit my case, leaving me back at square one—alone, destitute, terrified, without representation. This nightmare repeated over my six-year court hell.
For the upcoming mediation to expose Irene, I begged my first attorney for a flat fee. He agreed, reigniting a flicker of hope amid the heartbreak.
On the day of mediation, Irene sat directly across from me, with my attorney at my side and the transcriptionist positioned to Irene’s right. She initially answered the questions calmly, politely, and without hesitation. But just fifteen minutes in, she veered off track and launched into an unprompted speech about Mitchell—how capable he was of raising Samuel on his own.
I sat there, squirming in my chair, gripping my fingers tight under the conference table. It was crystal clear: this lonely, 70-year-old woman had crossed the professional line. She wasn’t just doing her job—she had clearly taken a personal interest in Mitchell. He had charmed her, just like he’d done to me and others before. I recognized the pattern. But when it came to my child, she was flat-out wrong.
The transcriptionist called for a five-minute break. Out in the hallway, I turned to my attorney and said what was obvious: “Excuse me for swearing, but she’s a biased bitch.” He didn’t argue—he agreed. I reminded him of a phone call I had with Irene where I repeatedly asked when she planned to visit my rental home. After canceling once, she eventually said, “I don’t need to visit your home.” My attorney’s eyes lit up. “Good,” he said. “We’ll confront her about that. It’s one of the basic duties of a guardian ad litem—to visit the child’s home.”
Back in the conference room, the transcriptionist signaled she was ready, and the questioning resumed. My attorney asked Irene to recount her phone conversations with me. On record, she admitted she’d only met me once—and that was at a Golden Corral. She also confirmed I had called her frequently, trying to reschedule a home visit and get updates on my case. Then he asked the key question: “Why did you say it wasn’t necessary to visit my client’s home?”
That’s when the transformation happened. Irene’s sweet, soft-spoken demeanor vanished. Her face flushed red, her long red nails clacked loudly against the conference table, and she snapped, “I never said that!”
I sat there in disbelief. She lied. Boldly. Blatantly. And in that moment, I realized the painful truth: age, gender, professional titles—none of it shields anyone from dishonesty. People lie. And now, this woman was lying under oath, and I was terrified of what that could mean for my case.
I swear to God, she said those words to me. My friends remember me telling them immediately after that call. I always shared updates with them after speaking to her.
My attorney pressed her. He got her to admit—on the record—that to this day, she had never visited my temporary home. She tried to spin it, claiming the visit was still pending, though she also admitted she hadn’t scheduled a date. He asked how she planned to do the visit when our next court date was in just two days. Her response? She intended to arrive unannounced.
Unannounced? As if she thought she’d catch me doing… what, exactly?
I am a great mother. I am a woman of integrity. Whether you show up by appointment or unannounced, you’ll find me the same—except maybe on a planned visit, I’d have some pastries ready to satisfy your sweet tooth, Irene.
Irene never bothered to visit my temporary home—not once. But she did make time to show up in court to tell the judge she backed Mitchell for primary custody of Samuel.
Years later, after the case ended, I Googled her and found out she had passed away the year before. I stumbled across her online memorial and, naturally, I wrote a novel on her obituary page.
Then the little angel on my shoulder roundhouse-kicked the devil that made me do it—and I deleted the whole thing.
At least now she can’t hurt another mother or child ever again.