It began the way these things often do: an attempt to make it disappear.
With paperwork.
The argument was simple and familiar—this amounted to nothing. Whatever had happened was routine, ordinary, unremarkable. Nothing that required the court’s attention. Nothing that rose to the level of harm. Nothing worth preserving.
The details were stripped away until only abstraction remained. Context flattened. Time blurred. Human experience reduced to theory.
On paper, it was presented as discretion. Judgment. Process. A series of decisions untethered from motive or consequence.
I read it once. Then again. It was written to close a door before it ever opened.
What mattered wasn’t whether it was accurate. What mattered was that it was confident. Final. Declarative. An effort to end the story before it began.
I didn’t respond publicly.
That part was no longer mine to carry.
