From there, everything only got worse.
Brian began making a point of coming home with takeout bags from restaurants. He would sit down at the table and eat by himself while Tyler and I stayed in the kitchen, picking at some plain little salad. The smell of fried KFC wings or hot pizza spread through the whole apartment. Tyler would look at his father with hungry eyes, but Brian never once offered him a bite.
“Mom,” my son asked quietly on the third day, “why won’t Dad give me any pizza?”
“Because Dad has his ‘personal money,’ Tyler,” I said, running my hand over his hair. “And you and I have the family money. Come on. I bought flour. I’ll make you pancakes.”
That was the moment something inside me finally burned out for good. If a man could sit there calmly eating treats alone while his own child made do with plain pancakes, then he was no husband. No father, either. He was a parasite.
The breaking point came on Friday. I got home from work and found a receipt in the mailbox. A delivery from an expensive electronics store. In Brian’s name. The total was $440. For a new gaming monitor.
I walked into the apartment. Brian was in the living room, tearing open a huge box, his face glowing with joy.
“Look at this thing!” he said, forgetting for a second that we were barely speaking. “4K, insane refresh rate. Now I’m going to dominate Tanks like a god.”
“Four hundred and forty dollars, Brian?” I set the receipt on the table. “We were short thirty-five dollars on last month’s mortgage payment because you ‘couldn’t give more.’ Tyler’s teeth are coming in crooked, and the dentist said he needs braces. And you bought a monitor?”
“Oh, don’t start again!” He bristled instantly. “I saved up for this for three months. From my own paycheck. I had every right.”
“You did,” I said with a nod. “And I have every right not to live with a man who steals his own son’s future.”
“Steals? What the hell are you talking about?”
I didn’t answer him. I went into the hallway, grabbed his gym bag—the same sports duffel he always took with him—and began stuffing his things into it with cold, steady movements. Shirts straight off the hangers. T-shirts. Socks.
“Hey! What are you doing?” He rushed after me, waving his arms. “Put that back! Have you lost your mind?”
“No, Brian. I’ve finally found it. You have fifteen minutes to pack whatever else you need. You’re going to your mother’s. She loves you. She’ll feed you. She can admire your new monitor.”
“You can’t throw me out! I live here!” He tried to shove past me, but I looked at him in such a way that he stopped mid-motion.
“This condo was mine before we got married, Brian. Your name isn’t on the deed. You don’t own a thing here. Tomorrow I’ll start the legal paperwork to remove you properly. But right now, you’re leaving. Otherwise I call the police and tell them a man who has no right to be here is forcing his way into my home.”
“You’ll regret this,” he hissed. He snatched up the bag, jammed the monitor into it too—priorities, of course—and bolted for the door. “You’ll come crawling back when you don’t have enough money for Tyler’s school uniform!”
I shut the door behind him, slid the key into the lock, and turned it twice.