As a young lawyer, I held the notion that a good lawyer should be able to answer any legal question that might come up at a cocktail party. Whether someone asked about the fine points of probate or how to get a relative out of jail, I wanted to have an answer. This idea of being a well-rounded attorney led me to take on a variety of cases before I eventually narrowed my practice to business law. Along the way, I learned a few lessons — lessons I eventually codified into a “Top Ten” list of advice for new attorneys. When a freshly minted lawyer entered the ranks, I would send them a note of congratulations, along with these words of hard-won wisdom. The list always began with: Never, ever, ever-ever take on a family law case. After eight more practical suggestions, it concluded with number ten, a reminder: If you forget everything else, remember lesson number one. Never, ever, ever-ever take on a family law case.

One case in particular cemented this advice in my mind. It began with an unusual visit from a woman who introduced herself as Cody Littleton’s mother — the kind of woman whose children refer to her as “Mama.” She swept into my office and, without hesitation, announced, “My son needs a divorce.” The forthrightness of her statement alone was memorable, but her open confession about her feelings toward Cody’s wife, Cassie, was even more so. She had never hidden her dislike for Cassie, a sentiment she now shared freely with me, citing the well-worn reasons that mothers often give for not liking their daughters-in-law. But one specific detail caught my attention, a detail I first misinterpreted as almost comical rather than cautionary: before the marriage, during a heated argument, Cassie had taken Mama’s beloved pet bird and, in a fit of pique, stuffed it into a drawer in her bedroom bureau. By the time the bird was discovered — mad but ultimately unharmed — the incident had left an indelible schism between mother and her future daughter-in-law.

I agreed to take the case, but I would first need to meet with Cody and hear his story directly. So, when Cody arrived in my office, I was met by a tall, solidly built man in square-framed craftsman’s glasses, Panhandle jeans, and a beard that looked a few seasons old. He had an unassuming air of quiet capability, yet here he stood, looking somewhat sheepish as he explained that his mother had insisted he come to see me.

Cody’s tale unfolded in fragments, revealing a marriage riddled with early warning signs. He spoke of his mother’s misgivings, which he had initially brushed aside as the fussing of an overprotective parent. Then he went on to share the kinds of stories one only realizes are extraordinary when recounting them in retrospect or to a stranger. 

Their marriage had followed a familiar course at first: he took a steady job with a construction company, she worked as a traveling nurse, they bought a house in the suburbs, and soon decided to start a family, leading to the birth of their son, whom I will call “Baby Cletus.” Yet as the marriage progressed, Cassie’s behavior grew increasingly controlling.

About a year before Cody came to see me, Cassie had rented a storage unit and taken nearly all of his belongings — his clothes, his tools, and, most distressingly, his cherished baseball card collection — and locked them away. Each week, she would set out two pairs of pants and a week’s worth of shirts, in exchange for him returning the clothes she had given him the prior week. The final insult, however, came on Baby Cletus’s birthday.

Cassie had invited Cody to a celebration at Chuck E. Cheese, one of those last, sticky-carpeted kids’ joints from the 1980s where parents pay a fool’s ransom for inedible pizza and syrupy sodas, all so their kids can play arcade games to the tune of oversized animatronic rats. But upon his arrival, there was no party, and no family. Returning to the parking lot, he discovered that his truck was gone. Cassie had used the invitation as a ruse to take his vehicle. That, at last, was his breaking point — or at least his mother’s — and he finally agreed he could not live that way any longer.

On Cody’s behalf, I filed for divorce. Cassie, being Cassie, refused to let it proceed smoothly. She cycled through attorneys, staged dramatic confrontations in my office lobby, and did everything possible to complicate the process. However, after months of wrangling, the judge finally ordered the case be put to trial.

On the appointed date, we convened a hearing to finalize the matter. All that remained was for Cassie, as the witness, to answer the perfunctory questions required under state law. With Cassie on the stand, I began to work through each one: Were the parties married on this date? Did they live in this county? Is the marriage now irreconcilable? No party is expecting the birth of a child… And that was when everything took a sharp turn.

Cassie, sitting defiantly on the stand, suddenly got a gleam in her eye. Almost gleefully, she announced, “We cannot get divorced because I am pregnant!” The judge looked at her, then at me. I stared back, momentarily at a loss for words, then glanced over at my client in pure disbelief. Finally regaining my composure, I asked the judge for a short recess. With a stern look over the rim of his glasses, he granted us five minutes.

The moment we were in the hallway, and the door to the courtroom closed, I turned to Cody, and, uncharacteristically, profanity came pouring out of me. “What the fuck, Cody! How could you let this happen?” I was furious, pacing. “Do you mean to tell me you have been sneaking over there and—?”

Cody, genuinely bewildered, began to protest. “But I have not been going over there! I have not been near her.”

“The hell you have not!” I shot back. “Then how do you explain this? She is pregnant, and now this divorce is a mess.”

“But she cannot be pregnant,” he said firmly. “The only way she got pregnant with Baby Cletus was through one of those clinics… what is it called?… in vitro fertilization.”

“Are you certain?” I pressed.

“Yes, I am sure,” Cody replied, looking almost pained. “The doctors said she could not conceive naturally.”

Taking a moment to regain my composure, I returned to the courtroom and, still simmering, asked the judge if I might cross-examine the witness. He gave me a skeptical look but granted permission. Under questioning, Cassie eventually conceded that she had, in fact, gone back to the fertility clinic on her own and arranged for an embryo to be implanted — without Cody’s knowledge or consent.

With this admission, I turned to the judge, requesting that we proceed with the divorce. But this judge, conservative by reputation and cautious by habit, overruled my request. Despite my objections, he made it clear that if Cassie bore a child, Cody would be legally responsible for it — the cost of delivery, eighteen years of child support, and more. There was no further discussion; the judge’s decision was final.

While we had lost the hearing, I had no intention of conceding. The ruling rankled my sense of justice — how could someone be held financially responsible for a child they had not consented to bring into the world? We would have at least a month to secure a transcript of the proceedings and begin the appeals process, and I was prepared, even at my own expense, to see this case through to the highest court.

Then, fate intervened.

Just as I was preparing the appeal, Cassie’s attorney called, sounding almost relieved. Cassie had miscarried. With the pregnancy no longer an obstacle, we could resume the proceedings and finally bring the case to a close.

A hearing was set, and we all trotted back to the courthouse, weary from the months of drama and eager to put the matter to rest. Cassie arrived, looking as though she had been chewing on a lemon, her expression twisted into something between defiance and resentment. Testimony was taken, and formalities observed. Finally, the judge signed off on the divorce. At my request, he issued a permanent injunction prohibiting either party from using the remaining embryos without mutual consent, a measure intended to prevent any further complications. With the final documents signed and the courtroom emptied, the case, at long last, arrived at an end.

As I walked out of the courthouse that day, I made a quiet pledge — a vow I would come to share with any lawyer willing to listen: Never, ever, ever-ever take on a family law case.. ♦