She Wins. Again.

Not reality. But your mind sees it like this (Juno from Beetlejuice)

The man across the room from me was on his cell phone.

"I have to come back later," he said. "She's going to get everything she wants.

"She wins. Again."

Family Court is perhaps the most soulless place you'll find. In fact, I don't think "perhaps" applies.

The people who are there cut across literally every socioeconomic category.

MAGA meets snowflake. Race and gender don't matter. Or maybe they do but you want to believe they don't.

They come in all shapes and sizes, all in the name of "family."

Which, more often than not, has fallen apart before arriving at that very location.

Sometimes it gets cantankerous.

"Knock it off!" an office bellows. Later, you hear: "We'll see how tough you are outside."

Moments later, you hear someone got arrested.

I've made more trips to that building than I'd rather admit.

It always starts the same way: park in the nearby garage and hoof it a few blocks. Then walk into the lifeless building on the corner. Empty the pockets to walk through the metal detector, then proceed to the second floor.

Check-in: "Do you have a lawyer? Have a seat."

Then sit on one of the benches, be it in the main room or in one of the two adjoining rooms. Long wooden benches -- reminiscent of a courtroom -- await. They're as uncomfortable as the building you're in.

Then you wait.

Some do it calmly. Some are agitated.

Some are nervous, feeling like their very soul will drop out on the repellent carpet.

Many have support. Barristers chat with their clients, while others have family or friends.

My sister went with me the first time when I felt like I had gone through a meat grinder and watched helplessly as judge and counselor babbled over my fate. I'm not sure I even uttered a word.

The process was demoralizing.

You see all types of dress. Ripped jeans and stretch pants and work pants. Men who just want to get to their construction job.

I once went in a jacket and dress pants. I don't recall, but I might have had a tie on. I was asked if I was a lawyer. Then I looked around. Lesson learned. So, being me, it's khakis and a button-down shirt.

Everyone has a story there. Nearby a few small children laugh and gurgle near their parents. While offputting to some, the laughter brings a much-needed sense of innocence and charm.

You've sat on those benches and been told how awful you are.

You wait. Listen. Perfect your solitaire skills.

If you're like me, your already small fingernails get a workout.

Then you hear it: "Party for Adams please proceed...and wait outside the door." The cadence never changes.

So, you wait at the door. It has the sense of being in Beetlejuice. You want to ask about Coach, but you know that Juno's answer won't be kind.

The door opens, and a court officer greets you. You confirm you are, in fact, the face of evil. Or so it seems.

"Is your cell phone off? Follow me"

It's like proceeding to see Santa Claus in A Christmas Story. Every bit as nerve-wracking and not remotely fun.

Walk straight. Turn right. Stand at the table. There are a microphone and forms.

They talk. It might be mean. Harsh. Cruel. Real.

It can feel like staring down Judge Judy, sans the cameras and studio audience. You even remember the time you heard them all laughing inside that room before you walked in. It did anything but instill confidence in you.

You mumble your name. You know you're not a deadbeat dad but you might be viewed as one.

They don't know you. They don't know your story. They don't know your relationship with your child. But, more to the point, they don't care.

It can be over almost as quickly as it began.

In this case, it's over within five minutes.

You walk out and the emotions swell. Laugh? No. Cry? Wait. Nauseated? Nearly every time.

Overall there's a sense of relief because you're done.

You'll do better but you simply can't wait until this portion of your life is finished.

You thank people. The judge. The lawyers. The officer who helped you at the metal detector.

"Have a nice day," you murmur.

It sucks. Every ounce of it sucks.

Soon, you're back in the car, paying a couple of dollars for parking and heading out onto Market St.

You breathe. Sigh.

Get on the phone.

Sigh more.

And let it all pour out.

I don't wish it on many people.

Ever.