Chapter – 41
From the first trial to the second, and finally the third, Elena’s claim remained unwavering.
She insisted that she was the one who could make Lucy a remarkable person, vowing to dedicate her entire life to it.
Those who acknowledged her dedication sided with her, yet a lingering question hovered in their minds:
“But can this child really become a renowned magician?”
If Lucy were ten, it might have been easier to judge—but three years old was far too young.
“And what if she can’t?” That doubt gnawed at their hearts. Most people, as Violetta had said, are ordinary.
Elena had never been able to properly answer Violetta’s repeated question: “What if your child fails?”
The decision was finally made. The judge struck the gavel.
“This court overturns the results of the first and second trials and grants custody of Lucy Beckdelaise, the child of the two parties, to the defendant—”
“Wait, please! Hold on! I can’t accept this!”
Elena’s voice trembled, tears welling in her eyes. Her face, contorting more and more under Violetta’s pressure, finally collapsed entirely.
“So you’re saying I should just… raise my child as a proper young lady? Teach her to be content with that life? That being a girl who can’t do anything under Karl’s guidance would be happier than striving for her dreams?!”
“That’s not Lucy’s dream,” Violetta said gently, watching Elena’s tear-streaked face.
Elena glared at Violetta and pulled her young daughter close.
“Tell me—tell me she should be satisfied with such a dog-like, pig-like life? I can’t. I won’t.”
“Oh, Elena. That’s ‘an ordinary life.’ Just like yours, as a lawyer. And like everyone else here.”
“The probability of living ordinarily is high. If not trying is not a dog-like, pig-like life, then what is?”
Elena couldn’t suppress the surging emotions, sobbing bitterly. She wasn’t just sad at the thought of losing custody—each word from Violetta cut her deeply.
“Eh, Elena… don’t cry, Elena.”
The Count hastily moved to her side, only to be stopped by Violetta. She extended her arm and blocked him, while Iola firmly held the Count’s arm.
“You’ve completely misunderstood me. Lucy won’t grow up as the ordinary young lady you expect,” Violetta clarified.
“What…?”
“She has an ambitious, proud mother and a wealthy father. She’ll learn whatever she wants and reach in many directions.”
No one could predict what kind of person three-year-old Lucy would become.
But she had a wealthy father and a proud mother. She would not grow into a helpless, dependent young lady.
People are unpredictable. With money, Lucy’s future would be far broader than most.
“My point is, when Lucy decides to live her own life, it will be far easier on her to break the expectations of her father than to break yours.”
“My expectations… broken?!”
The Count, who had misunderstood Violetta’s words as “It’s best to grow up peacefully under my care,” blinked in surprise. Others in the courtroom had made the same mistake.
“Yes. Broken. Parents’ expectations exist to be shattered, right, Iola?”
“Indeed. Didn’t I defy my own parents’ expectations—of ruling as a ruthless mercenary captain—to earn my lawyer’s license? That’s life.”
Expectations, big or small. Children, capable or not. Parents’ expectations are bound to be broken eventually.
The key is not if, but when and how.
“Breaking the expectation of becoming a great magician to become a merchant or singer is hard. But breaking the expectation of being a ‘fine young lady’ to become a merchant or singer? That’s easy.”
In that regard, the Count was fortunate. Violetta clicked her tongue, lightly dismissing such simple reasoning.
“Overcoming the mother’s expectation to be a great magician… that’s hard. But ignoring the father’s wish for health and choosing to be a chef… that’s simple.”
It’s a matter of difficulty.
The Count’s expectations are easy to defy. And as long as Lucy doesn’t go astray, he wouldn’t even mind.
“The Count only wants his daughter to grow up safely, not to be a helpless fool.”
He could naturally support her if she chose her own path.
“Even marrying a magician from a commoner’s background shows the Count’s character,” Violetta added.
“…….”
Elena’s tears subsided.
At first, she had cried out of anger at being seen as a harsh mother; later, she had wept as if she had been accused of ruining her daughter. Now, she quietly looked at Violetta.
“…You’re right,” Elena said.
The heavy silence broke. Elena wiped the tear tracks from her cheeks and exhaled.
Her eyes softened, the harshness in her expression replaced by a gentle warmth.
“I wanted my child to surpass me, yet I was scared. I knew that the path wouldn’t be easy.”
Everyone reaches a point where they recognize their own limits.
Elena, who had balanced work by day and magic by night, had felt that wall.
Marrying the Count reluctantly, she perhaps hoped her child would continue what she couldn’t.
But knowing how hard and futile it could be, the voice of reality kept echoing within her swelling expectations.
“But I thought it would be even sadder not to trust my child. That’s why…”
“My dear, someone once told me something wonderful,” Violetta said, leaning forward from her place to pat Elena’s arm. Elena held herself together, barely stopping another wave of tears.
“They said: Don’t trust the ending, trust the will. I’ve come to love those words.”
She glanced subtly at Iola, who smiled quietly in response.
“Believe in Lucy’s potential. Don’t trust the outcome. Just love her.”
Violetta leaned forward and took Lucy’s hand. Lucy, a sweet little girl, readily grasped the stranger’s hand. She was a child one could love, confident that she would turn out fine no matter who she became.
Elena, who had lost her previous harshness, trembled as she reached out.
“Can I… let go of these expectations? Like Karl… calmly, gently… see my child?”
“There’s nothing you can’t do. From a farmer’s daughter to a magician, and even a Countess!”
Violetta spoke boldly, clapping Elena on the back with a loud smack.
After all, she was only three, and Elena was a mother of less than four years. There were endless opportunities to make up for it.
Buoyed by Violetta’s encouragement, Elena staggered toward the Count.
Her exhausted body fell into his arms.
“I’m sorry, Karl. You were right. I almost made things hard for Lucy.”
“It’s okay, Elena! I’m sorry I couldn’t express my feelings properly either. But now we both understand, and that’s enough.”
The Count hurriedly embraced Elena, who had been waiting for any chance to reconcile.
Count Beckdelaise and Countess Elena looked into each other’s damp eyes.
“It seems the story has ended well.”
The judge realized the trials were now pointless.
“Well… the efforts and time of three trials might have gone to waste… but the child will grow up well, so that’s good enough.”
It was like witnessing a friend’s love story, the kind that’s frustrating to watch: “All that fuss, and they end up back together anyway.” The judge sighed, striking the gavel.
“Then the court declares that custody of Lucy Beckdelaise belongs to Count Karl Beckdelaise.”
The trial was over.
The silent spectators slowly stirred.
Those who expected the Count to lose were dumbfounded at his unexpected victory.
Gradually, everyone realized what had really happened. The paradigm of the trial had shifted—and the person most responsible was Violetta.
“Ah….”
A sigh, almost like a groan.
What followed wasn’t praise, but tremendous boos and protests.
“Why did you help the Count?!”
“Traitor!”
“I trusted you! I thought you’d defeat the Count!”
The crowd in the courtroom began throwing whatever they could grab.
