Up to that point, I had somehow managed to hold on, clenching my fists on my knees so tightly my knuckles turned white. But her words, spoken in a calm voice, without a single fact, without examples, as if they were self-evident, suddenly became the last straw. I felt something snap inside my chest, break loose. My voice grew hoarse, I stood up, and, unable to restrain myself, I began to speak louder than I should have. I said she was lying, that I had never in my life laid a hand on her or our daughter, that for years she had taken advantage of the fact that I had given up my career for the family, and now she was painting me as dangerous because it was more convenient for taking both the house and the child. The words flew out of me, one after another. I was no longer paying attention to my tone, only saw Marina’s eyes narrow and a cold, almost satisfied spark flash in Vorontsov’s eyes. And only at the very last moment, when my voice was on the verge of breaking, did I catch a glimpse of a small black rectangle on a shelf in the corner, carefully placed on a stack of books, its lens pointed directly at us.
The moment I saw that small black rectangle on the shelf, neatly placed among the books and folders, everything inside me just stopped. My brain seemed to push all emotions aside and suddenly, coldly and clearly, asked: and who said this is just some decoration or an old recorder? At that very second, Vorontsov gently, almost affectionately, asked me to sit down, saying he understood my feelings, that we were gathered here precisely to let them out, that the most important thing now was the child’s safety and peace for all participants. Marina sat down, theatrically dabbing her dry eyes with a tissue. Sofya shrank in her chair, clutching her old tablet even tighter. And I, looking at this scene, understood that I had just given them exactly what they had been so persistently trying to extract from me—a beautiful, emotional outburst set against their pre-constructed narrative of my instability.
When the session ended, Vorontsov, as if nothing had happened, politely shook our hands and said he would prepare a report for the court, that he might need one more meeting, but overall, the picture was clear to him. Marina nodded, thanking him with that respectful tone she usually reserved for people on whom her promotion depended. I, on the other hand, walked out into the hallway feeling like I had been washed ashore after a storm. My head was buzzing, my palms were clammy, and a mix of shame, anger, and despair was still churning in my chest. On the way home, I barely spoke, just drove mechanically, feeling Sofya occasionally cast quick glances at me, as if checking to see if I would start shouting again.
In the evening, when Marina had gone out somewhere, citing business, and Sofya was in her room with a book, I picked up the phone and called Kharlamov. My voice was trembling, but I was no longer talking about my hurt feelings, but about what I had seen in Vorontsov’s office. I described the black rectangle on the shelf in detail, its position, how I had lost my temper, how I had shouted, how at one point I saw Vorontsov slightly close his eyes, as if listening not only to the words but to how they sounded. There was a short pause on the other end of the line, then Kharlamov quietly said that the conversation was most likely recorded. And not just for the psychologist’s internal work; in normal practice, recordings are permissible with the consent of the parties, but with these people, it seemed, one couldn’t count on normalcy. He asked me to remember if I had signed anything giving consent for audio or video recording. I wracked my brain, went over all the forms I had signed at Vorontsov’s, and realized that they were only standard consents for the processing of personal data and bureaucratic lines about conducting consultations. Not a word about filming. Kharlamov swore under his breath, then said it was bad, but not hopeless. The worst thing would be if this excerpt with my outburst was taken out of context and presented in court as proof of my condition, without showing everything else, where I talk about my love for my daughter, about how I held on while being methodically humiliated. He advised me not to do anything rash right now: don’t call Vorontsov, don’t make a scene, don’t demand the recording be deleted. Because then they would rewrite everything a hundred times and prepare themselves. He said that if the recording surfaced in court, we would question the basis on which it was made, whether there was consent, whether professional secrecy and ethics were violated, and that sometimes a perfect external image crumbles precisely because of the overconfidence of those who consider themselves untouchable. And right now, I needed to focus not on what had already been done, but on what could still be done to stay afloat.
The following days turned into a viscous, heavy corridor of waiting. On one hand, there was the usual domestic routine: I continued to cook soups, do laundry, iron, take Sofya to her classes and pick her up. We did homework, read, sometimes played board games, and in those moments, I almost managed to forget about everything that was hanging over us. But as soon as Marina appeared in the doorway, the air in the house would change, becoming thick, as if before a storm. She continued to ostentatiously bring expensive gifts, to throw sarcastic remarks, sometimes openly, sometimes politely wrapped in concern. And at night, I would again sit at the kitchen table, open my notebook, and write down who said what and under what circumstances, so that at least the paper would not let me doubt my own memory later.
The summons for the first full court hearing in our case arrived in the middle of one such gray week. An envelope with an official stamp, neat lines indicating the date, time, and courtroom. Kharlamov, having received a copy, met with me and explained in detail how everything would proceed, what to expect. He said that the first hearing was not the end, that the judge would listen to both sides, review the materials, that we would likely be asked to briefly state our positions, and then they would start examining the evidence. He paid special attention to the fact that I must not, under any circumstances, give in to provocations, no matter what Marina or her lawyer Chernov said, no matter how disgusting their tone was. Any outburst from me in the courtroom would be a gift to them and a shot at us.
On the day of the hearing, I woke up long before the alarm, though I had been sleeping in fits and starts anyway. I got ready almost automatically, chose the only decent suit left in my closet, and struggled to tie my tie, my fingers disobeying me. Sofya seemed particularly serious that morning. She came up to me, hugged me, and asked when we would be back. I answered honestly that I didn’t know, that court proceedings are unpredictable, but I would try to be home by evening. She nodded, looking at me as if memorizing my face. And I suddenly noticed that her old tablet was again by her side, just as it was that evening when I found it under her pillow. Unable to resist, I asked why she needed it when she had the new, powerful, shiny one. Sofya hesitated, said she was used to this one, that it was lucky, and added that sometimes old things protect better than new ones. I just nodded then, deciding it was a child’s fantasy, and hurried to the door.
I entered the district court with Kharlamov. The building greeted us with that peculiar smell—a mixture of old paint, paper, and nerves. People were already sitting in the corridors, some in stern suits, some in casual clothes, some whispering with lawyers, some staring silently at the floor as if trying to fall through the tiles. We went up to the right floor and found the courtroom where the hearing was to take place. Marina was already there, in an impeccable suit, with a neat hairstyle. Next to her stood Chernov, tall, confident, with an expensive watch. He cast a quick glance at us, a look that held no doubt about the outcome, and nodded more to Kharlamov than to me, like a colleague who knows in advance that he will leave the field a winner.
The hearing began almost on time. The judge, a woman with a tired but attentive gaze, checked the parties’ attendance, confirmed the details, and reminded us that the case concerned divorce, division of property, and determination of the child’s residence, as well as my participation in her upbringing. Marina, in a confident voice, reiterated that she insisted on the daughter living with her, that I, according to her, was incapable of providing either a stable income or emotional security, that she had expert opinions and other evidence confirming my “peculiarities.” Chernov occasionally interjected with legal terminology, emphasizing how meticulously his client had approached protecting the child’s interests.
When it was my turn to speak, the courtroom grew a little quieter. I stood up, feeling my legs weaken, took a deep breath, and without pathos or fancy phrases, explained as best I could that for all these years I had been the primary caregiver for our daughter, the one who got her ready for the gymnasium every morning, sat with her over homework, drove her to extracurriculars, that leaving my job was not my whim but a joint decision and primarily Marina’s wish, that there had never been violence in our home, that yes, there were arguments between spouses, but the child always remained the one thing for whose sake I tried to hold on. I asked the court to pay attention not only to income and careers but to the real, daily life that Sofya and I led. The judge listened attentively, asked a few clarifying questions, then announced that she was moving on to review the written materials, including the psychologist’s report. And that’s when Chernov stood up. He adjusted his folder and announced that in addition to the expert’s report, they had another piece of evidence that would more vividly demonstrate the nature of my emotional state. He requested permission to show a video recording. The judge paused for a moment, then stated that if the recording was obtained lawfully and both parties did not object, it could be admitted and viewed. Kharlamov immediately stood up, clarifying that we had not been notified of any filming, and asked for an explanation of what the recording was, where it came from, and who made it. Chernov, with a carefully constructed innocent smile, reported that it was a fragment of a joint consultation with the psychologist who, according to him, had recorded the session as part of his professional practice to more accurately analyze the participants’ behavior, and that a part of this recording, in their view, vividly illustrated how unstable and aggressive I could be. The judge asked if there had been consent from the parties. To which Chernov launched into a speech about signed documents and standard procedures, without ever, however, directly naming a single clause. Kharlamov insisted that without explicit proof of consent, such a recording could not be considered unequivocally lawful. But the judge, after a pause, still allowed it to be shown, noting that the assessment of its admissibility and weight as evidence would be given later, after discussion.
When the lights in the courtroom were dimmed and the screen turned on, my heart was pounding somewhere in my throat. I already knew what I was going to see, and yet, when the image appeared and the courtroom’s acoustics projected my own, broken voice into the space, it was physically painful. On the screen was that very moment when Marina, with a dramatic but dry intonation, was talking about how she was afraid I might do something in a state of passion. The shot was framed so that it captured her mournful face, Vorontsov’s focused, slightly concerned profile, and me, at one point jumping up from my chair, my hands raised, my voice rising, my words blending into a single stream of pain and accusations. Moreover, they had left at most a couple of minutes of the recording before my outburst, where I was speaking calmly and evenly. And everything that came before, all her barbs, all the hints, the entire years-long icy backdrop that had driven me to this scream, was neatly cut out. Sofya was barely in the frame, her figure only flashing a couple of times on the edge like a shadow. But my outburst was shown in all its glory, from the right perspective, at the right angle. The judge sat with an impassive face, but I could see some of the attendees, those waiting for their turn, exchanging glances; someone smirked, someone shook their head. When the recording was paused at a particularly unflattering moment, where my face, contorted with pain, was trying to explain that I had been betrayed, Chernov gently but loudly remarked that this, and I quote, was a “typical example of that very passion” his client had spoken of and which the specialist mentioned in his report. Kharlamov stood up, requested that my statement about the recording being made without separate, clearly expressed consent be added to the record, pointed out that we had not been provided with the full recording but only a fragment advantageous to one side, and stressed that the court could not accept a clipped excerpt as an objective reflection of personality. But I understood that words are just words, and the visual image imprinted on everyone in the courtroom would not be erased. It felt as if two halves of me were locked in a mortal struggle. One screamed that it was a trap, that I had been led to this outburst from the very beginning. The other whispered that it still didn’t justify how I looked on screen.
After the lights came back on, the judge made a note, said the recording would be evaluated in conjunction with other materials, scheduled the next stage of the hearings, and announced a recess. We walked out into the corridor, and there, under the dim lamps, I felt exposed before the whole world. Marina walked past, turning her head slightly so that only I could see her satisfied smile. Chernov stood a little way off, talking to some colleagues, but from his smug posture, I understood that they considered this day their victory. Sofya was not present at the hearing, and that was the only relief because I wasn’t sure I could have borne it if my daughter had seen me like that on screen.
When Kharlamov and I went down to the street, I inhaled the cold air so greedily, as if trying to wash away everything I had just seen from inside me. He walked silently beside me for a while, then said that, as he had suspected, Vorontsov had played his part, that the recording was a blow to us, no doubt, but not a fatal one if we could manage to show the court the whole picture, not just this artificially inflated episode. He asked me not to give up, because that was exactly what they were expecting of me now. He repeated that the dirtiest tricks often backfire on those who devise them, especially if there is even one small crack in their perfect legend. All I could do was hope that such a crack existed and that sooner or later, it would become visible to more than just me.
After that hearing, where everyone in the courtroom was shown a carefully edited clip of my outburst, life seemed to split into two parallel lines. On the outside, everything continued as before: I still got up early, cooked porridge, took Sofya to and from school, did laundry, cooked, and wrote down every phrase and every jab in my notebook. But inside, I walked around with the feeling that I had already been officially declared a kind of walking threat, they just hadn’t issued the paperwork yet. Marina behaved like people who believe the worst is behind them. She was calm, businesslike, even a little softer than before. And it was this new softness that was most frightening, because I saw in it not reconciliation, but confidence in her own victory.
During another meeting with Kharlamov, as we sat in his small office overlooking a shabby courtyard, I asked him directly if I had any chance at all, or if everything was heading towards me being squeezed out of my daughter’s life under a plausible pretext. He silently leafed through a folder for a while, then slowly said that we were indeed in a difficult position because Marina had money, connections, pre-prepared certificates, and now this recording. But that didn’t mean everything was predetermined. He reminded me that, by law, the court is obliged to look at the totality of the evidence, not just one emotional episode, and added that sometimes it is precisely those who feel invincible who make fatal mistakes, especially when they start to believe they can get away with anything.
We filed a petition with the guardianship and custody authorities, asking them to pay attention to how Marina was restricting my contact with our daughter and that Vorontsov’s report, to put it mildly, raised questions. Kharlamov helped draft a complaint to the professional association of psychologists, detailing that the recording was made without our explicit consent, that important fragments were edited out, and that the conclusions were one-sided. To be honest, I didn’t have high hopes for these documents. Too often in our system, such complaints are put in a drawer or reviewed formally. But Kharlamov insisted that even if it didn’t change much now, later, if something else came up, it would all fit together into a single mosaic, and then every little detail could play a role…
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