The Verdict on My Husband the Judge: GUILTY novel Chapter 79

I spent thirty years being the perfect wife, mother, and unpaid servant–and my reward?

Getting left behind while my husband, son, and sister flew off to Europe without me.

They said I was “too old” for adventure.

That my job was to “hold down the fort.”

But when I collapsed at the airport, not one of them looked back.

So I stopped waiting.

Sold the house. Filed for divorce. Booked a one–way ticket–and never looked back.

Now they’re homeless, desperate, and BEGGING me to come back.

Too bad I’m in Tokyo.

I’m fifty. I’m a grandma. So what?

I’m still FREE!

Thirty years. Thirty goddamn years I’d been everyone’s workhorse.

My son got married. My grandson started school.

And finally–FINALLY–I worked up the courage to ask my husband:

‘Remember that promise you made thirty years ago? About traveling the world together?”

He shook his head, looking uncomfortable.

‘Come on. We’re past the backpacking phase, Rebecca. Don’t be childish.”

My son and daughter–in–law shot me a look.

‘Mom, seriously. We need you here. Who else is gonna handle everything?”

But that night, I found something on my husband’s phone.

Five plane tickets.

My husband. My son and his wife. My grandson.

And my sister, Sarah.

Chapter 1

Departure: five days.

No me.

Something inside me died right then.

Five days later, I had everyone’s bags packed, every detail covered, and drove them to the airport.

Right before they walked through security, my son turned to me..

Mom, you’re in charge while we’re gone. We’ll bring you back something nice, promise.”

My husband and Sarah walked side by side toward the gate. My grandson held their hands the whole way.

stood there until they disappeared into the crowd.

Then I turned around, listed the house, and booked myself a one–way ticket overseas.

That trip around the world I’d waited thirty years for?

Screw it. I’d give it to myself.

was scrubbing dishes when my husband started in.

Rebecca, you’re not twenty anymore. You can’t just chase every whim that pops into your head. Sarah travels because she’s an artist–she has actual work to do. You? That’s not the same thing.”

He adjusted his accordion like this conversation was already over.

Think about this family for once. Our son’s career is stalling. Our grandson needs us. And you want to go on vacation? How is that

air?”

My son looked up from his phone.

Mom, seriously. You’ve got grandkids now. This is supposed to be the good part–family time, relaxing at home. Why would you want o exhaust yourself traveling? Just stay here. Let us take care of you.”

The cold dishwater bit into the cracks in my hands–old frostbite scars that never quite healed. I winced but kept going.

When I finally dried my hands and walked into the living room, they were all huddled around my husband’s laptop–looking at hotel >hotos, I assumed.

That’s when my grandson’s voice hit me like a slap.

‘I don’t want Grandma coming with us. She’s old and boring. Not like Aunt Sarah–she’s pretty and nice and plays piano. When she picks me up from school, everyone thinks she’s cool. Not like-”

Someone cut him off.

Dead silence.

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Chapter 1

Then my husband cleared his throat and said causally.

“Kids say things, Rebecca. He doesn’t mean it. I’ll talk to him.”

But my grandson wasn’t done.

“Aunt Sarah wins competitions. Mom and Dad have real jobs. Grandpa’s in the orchestra. But Grandma just… stays home. That’s what you said, Grandpa. So why are you mad now?”

Everyone stared at me.

I stood there, frozen, my brain refusing to process what I’d just heard.

Finally, I turned and walked to the bedroom. Closed the door. Sat on the bed.

I looked down at my hands. Rough. Calloused. Cracked open in places.

six a.m.–grocery run. Seven a.m.–breakfast for four people. Seven–thirty–drive my grandson to school. Then laundry, mopping. unch prep, serving everyone, dishes, maybe a twenty–minute nap if I’m lucky, then pick–up, dinner prep, serve, clean, collapse.

And somehow I was the selfish one.

I lay back and closed my eyes.

From the living room, I heard my husband talking. Loud enough that I knew he wanted me to hear.

‘Your mom’s got this thing about Sarah. Always has. Some people just can’t accept reality. Better to let it go than torture yourself, but

she won’t.”

The accordion started up again.

stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what “reality” I was supposed to accept.

The doorbell rang.

Then my husband’s voice–suddenly warm, almost giddy.

Sarah! Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”

Sarah’s laugh floated through the walls.

I wanted it to be a surprise! Life’s more fun that way, right?”

My grandson screamed like she was a rockstar.

AUNT SARAH!”

The house exploded. My husband was suddenly everywhere–grinding coffee beans, slicing fruit, grinning like an idiot the whole

ime.

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