What Small Claims Court Taught Me About Clarity and What I’m Taking With Me

I went into small claims court thinking I understood what “proof” meant. I had text messages. I had photos. I had payment records. I had a clean timeline. I believed that if you could show what happened, the outcome would follow naturally.

That assumption turned out to be wrong.

The case itself was simple on the surface. A private sale involving antique historical ceramic vases. The seller originally had ten. I purchased two first. Later, we discussed the remaining eight. Before sending payment, I asked directly which vases were included. The response I received was “all 8 I have left.” Photos followed, eight vases clearly shown. We discussed price and payment, and I paid.

To me, and to any reasonable person reading the exchange, the agreement felt obvious. Ten minus two equals eight. Eight vases. One price. Payment sent. End of story.

But clarity in everyday life is not the same thing as clarity in court.

The judge did not dispute that messages existed, that money changed hands, or that photos were shared. The court did not suggest that I fabricated evidence or misunderstood the transaction in bad faith. Instead, the case turned on a single concept that I didn't fully appreciate until I was standing there hearing it applied: ambiguity.

In legal terms, ambiguity doesn't mean something was unclear to the people involved. It means that a hypothetical third party, a judge with no shared context, no memory of the conversation, and no assumptions, is able to imagine more than one possible interpretation of the words used. If enforcing an agreement requires the court to connect dots, reconstruct a background, or rely on shared understanding that's not explicitly written into the agreement itself, many judges will refuse to do so.

That's exactly what happened here.

From my perspective, there were no other eight vases the phrase “all 8 I have left” could reasonably refer to. From the court’s perspective, enforcing that understanding would have required relying on context: the earlier purchase of two vases, the shared history between the parties, and the assumption that the photos defined the contract items. Courts are trained to avoid assumption, even when the assumption feels obvious.

The ruling wasn't a statement about who was telling the truth. It wasn't a judgment about credibility. It was a decision not to infer.

That distinction matters, even though it's hard to accept in the moment. Courts prioritize certainty over common sense. They enforce what is redundantly explicit, not what feels clear when read by a human being who understands the story. A single sentence explicitly tying the photos to the agreement, something as simple as confirming that the eight vases shown in the photos were the subject of the sale, would likely have changed the outcome. Not because the deal was different, but because the language would have eliminated the need for inference.

Once I understood that, the experience began to shift in my mind.

It's unfortunate that the situation had to escalate to litigation at all. What began as a straightforward transaction could have been resolved much earlier, without the time, expense, or emotional weight that court proceedings inevitably bring.

I didn't go to small claims court expecting an education. I went expecting resolution. What I walked away with was a clearer understanding of how systems actually work, not how we assume they do. I learned how narrow the concept of “being right” becomes once it passes through procedure, caution, and the court’s desire to avoid guessing.

There are things I would do differently next time. I would be more explicit. More redundant. Less reliant on shared context. I would write agreements as if someone with no background knowledge might one day have to read them cold and decide what they mean. That's a mindset I didn't have before. I do now.

There are also things I am carrying forward that have nothing to do with contracts. I carry forward the confidence of having navigated something uncomfortable. The clarity that comes from seeing how formality can reshape reality. The understanding that some experiences cost time, money, and energy but return insight you can't get any other way.

No class could have taught me this. No article could have prepared me for it. It was learned in real time, under pressure, with consequences.

It is also worth noting that the court did enter judgment in my favor against a co-defendant who didn't appear. That portion of the case moved quickly, not because it was more important, but because it was uncomplicated. There was a single, undisputed fact that money had been paid, and no competing explanation to weigh. Seeing that outcome alongside the rest of the case was instructive. Where facts stand alone, courts can act decisively. Where facts are contested, layered, or contextual, the process becomes less about what happened and more about how those events are interpreted. Watching both unfold in the same courtroom made clear how much of the legal system turns not just on truth, but on narrative, posture, and presence.

What continues to fascinate me about this experience is the sharp divide between how everyday life operates and how the legal system deliberately does not. We communicate through context, shorthand, and shared understanding, while the law intentionally strips all of that away in favor of precision, redundancy, and rules that can survive scrutiny by strangers who were never there. That design choice makes the system feel rigid at times, but it also reveals how carefully it's built to avoid assumption and bias. Seeing that machinery up close has left me more curious than frustrated. It made me want to understand the architecture behind those rules, not just their outcomes. Maybe law school is in my future, maybe not, but experiences like this reinforce something I value deeply: stay curious, question systems, and keep learning how they really work.

I'm not walking away frustrated. I'm walking away sharper. More precise. More aware of how words matter when stakes are real. And perhaps most importantly, more comfortable knowing that even when outcomes don't look the way we expect on paper, they can still move us forward.

That's what this experience gave me, and that's what I'm taking with me.

By: Michael-Chase Strollo

Published: February 10, 2026 6:50 PM ET

Art, Artifacts, History, Legal, Law