As the ugly truth of Mitchell’s double life unraveled—his venomous online rants, his secret cruelty—my heart pounded with fury and dread. I began to question his sanity. Everyone knew his alcoholism raged unchecked—cases of beer, shots of liquor, his tolerance monstrous, his self-control nonexistent.
Desperate, I begged my attorney, Macy, to request a psychological evaluation. Her cold reply—“Everyone’s got something wrong with them”—cut deep. Still, I had nothing to hide. I wasn’t cruel or manipulative; I just wanted experts to expose Mitchell’s chaos.
Weeks later, in court, his slick attorney blindsided me—demanding my evaluation instead. Outrage roared inside me. I was the stable one! “Fine,” I snapped to Macy. “But only if he’s tested too.”
The judge agreed—and then came the shock. $3,000 for our son Samuel, $5,000 each for us. Why? These weren’t invasive tests, just words on paper! Mitchell could easily pay his share, but I had to split Samuel’s cost. How could they expect me to afford it on $420 a month? Once again, I turned to my family for help.
Samuel’s Test
Samuel’s evaluation came first—on my custody day. I researched the doctor: a titan of psychology, author, award-winner, scholar. His website radiated fairness and compassion. For the first time in months, I felt calm.
At his office, the doctor explained that Samuel would take the test alone while I waited. Two hours later, my little boy emerged hungry but smiling. We laughed and promised lunch to celebrate his “marathon.”
Weeks later, the report arrived—twenty pages. My breath caught. What could a seven-year-old possibly reveal? But it was all good—Samuel shone bright. A genius, the doctor wrote, with wit beyond his years. Pride surged through me. My son, my heart, my proof that love still thrived amid the madness.
Court Chaos
Back in court, Mitchell launched yet another attack. A new judge filled in—thankfully not the cold, smirking Mr. Burns lookalike I’d faced before. Macy had already withdrawn; I couldn’t afford her retainer. Alone, I filed a pro se motion to stop Mitchell’s endless financial strangulation.
This visiting judge actually saw it—the legal abuse, the pattern, the cruelty. He halted the bleeding, even if only temporarily. Skimming Samuel’s report, he laughed lightly. “This just says he’s a genius! But it doesn’t tell me much else.”
Still, he pierced Mitchell’s control, ordering him to restore my phone and pay the bills he’d maliciously let lapse. A small victory, but mine.
As Mitchell and his attorney slunk out, a young lawyer brushed my shoulder. “Keep fighting, Jocelyn,” he whispered. “You’re doing great. I’ve been watching you for months.”
Tears stung. Pride swelled. But I knew—I didn’t belong in this brutal arena.
The Psychological Showdown
Mitchell’s evaluation loomed a week away, mine two days after. My pulse thundered with hope and dread. Maybe—finally—truth would win. Maybe the experts would unmask the monster behind ten baseless police reports, fabricated evidence, eviction, and his stranglehold over my visits with Samuel.
I scraped together funds from kind cousins to hire yet another attorney. The revolving door of legal aid disgusted me. Lawyers flocked when retainers flowed but vanished the moment money dried up—leaving the next one to charge me just to catch up. It boiled my blood how they profited off our pain.
Then came the bombshell. My new attorney whispered that the doctor had called—Mitchell failed his test. Failed! My mind reeled. How does someone fail a psyche eval? What darkness did it reveal?
I called the doctor’s office, desperate, but they stonewalled me—confidentiality. They only confirmed that Mitchell would retake the test. A redo? Unfair! He’d game the system like always, while I faced it raw and honest.
My Turn
When my day came, I walked in calm but determined. “Answer honestly,” they’d said. Simple enough. I gave the test everything—truth, vulnerability, exhaustion.
Weeks crawled by. Finally, one Friday at 2:00 p.m., an email arrived. My hands shook as I opened it.
My report: average intelligence, yes—but depression and anxiety, born from Mitchell’s relentless cruelty. I nodded through tears. At last, someone saw it.
Then came his. Thirty pages long, bloated with damage control after his first failed attempt. The doctor called him deceptive—so much that he’d stopped the test midway and made him redo it. Even then, Mitchell’s results screamed the words “sadistic.”
I Googled it—“derives pleasure from inflicting pain.” Yes. That was him. Every lie, every humiliation, every act of destruction. It was all there in black and white.
Vindication crashed over me like a wave. Surely, this would end it. Surely the court would see what I’d endured.
The Hearing
The hearing date glowed like a beacon on the calendar. My attorney filed a motion to restore my custody of Samuel—armed now with the truth of these reports. My heart thundered as we stood before the bench.
Mitchell’s attorney objected—hearsay! But my lawyer was ready. “The doctor is here, Your Honor,” he said. “He will testify.”
The bailiff fetched him. The room hushed as the psychologist took the stand. Calm, confident, he told the truth: Mitchell’s excessive drinking, his deception, his sadism. He described me as wounded but genuine—a victim of manipulation and control.
For three relentless hours, questions flew, objections rose and fell. Then, at last, the gavel struck.
I’d won. Custody of Samuel—mine again! Tears blurred my vision. Every dollar, every sleepless night, every humiliation—it was worth it.
But then the judge added, almost absently, “There’s no evidence Mitchell is an alcoholic.”
I froze. What? Had he slept through the testimony? Ignored the affidavits, the witnesses, the bank statements showing daily liquor store runs? The injustice was staggering—but I barely felt it.
Because Samuel was coming home.
The Aftermath
No more supervised visits. No more watchful strangers judging my every word. Just my boy and me—laughing, free, whole again.
$13,000 for the evaluations? Every cent worth it. Because at last, I had my son—my sunshine—back where he belonged.
