Chapter 4 - The Son He Thought He Could Buy
Ethan had always been Richard's easiest audience.
They liked the same basketball team. They both hated olives. Richard took him to games, bought him shoes before he needed them, and told everyone, "That's my boy."
For years, I thought they were close.
Then one night, Ethan came into my bedroom and said, "Dad doesn't know anything about me."
He was thirteen.
I told him that was not true.
He asked, "What's my favorite class?"
I knew.
History.
"What's my best friend's last name?"
I knew.
Ramirez.
"What am I scared of?"
I knew that too.
Deep water, ever since he slipped beneath the surface at a hotel pool when he was eight.
Richard had been there.
He had been on a work call.
I was the one who jumped in.
Now, at fifteen, Ethan held his phone up and looked at his father like he was seeing him clearly for the first time.
"Give me the phone," Richard said.
"No."
"Ethan."
"No."
The word shook, but it stayed standing.
Richard looked at me.
"This is what you've done to them."
"I didn't tell him to record you."
"You don't have to. You poison them every day."
Ethan laughed bitterly.
"Mom doesn't even talk about you. That's the problem."
Richard's head snapped toward him.
"Excuse me?"
"She covers for you. All the time."
Ethan came down the stairs.
"When you missed my championship game, she said your flight got canceled. I saw the picture of you at the steakhouse with Mr. Dalton."
Richard went still.
"When you forgot Sophie's birthday dinner, Mom said your meeting ran late. You were at a golf tournament. When you didn't come home on Christmas Eve until almost midnight, she told Lily you were helping somebody at work."
His voice cracked.
"You think we're stupid?"
"I think you're a child."
"I'm old enough to know who is here."
That sentence hit harder than shouting would have.
Richard grabbed his coat from the back of a chair.
"Fine. You all want to play this game? Play it. But don't come crying to me when your mother can't keep this house."
He left.
The front door slammed.
Ethan lowered his phone.
His hands were trembling.
I pulled him into my arms.
He resisted for one second.
Then he broke.
"I hate him," he said into my shoulder.
"No," I whispered. "You hate what he did. Give yourself time before you decide what you feel about him."
"Why are you defending him?"
"I'm not. I'm protecting you from having to carry a feeling that heavy forever."
He cried harder.
I stood there holding my fifteen-year-old son while the five other children watched from the hallway.
That was the moment I understood something I should have understood years ago.
Richard's behavior had not only hurt me.
It had trained all of us to orbit his moods.
That night, I called a family therapist.
The next morning, Melissa filed for temporary orders.
By afternoon, the court froze major marital assets and prohibited either of us from moving more money without approval.
Richard's attorney responded with a custody filing.
He asked for primary custody of all six children.
When Melissa told me, I actually laughed.
"He doesn't know what size shoes Lily wears."
"Custody cases aren't awarded based on shoe size."
"He travels four nights a week."
"He says he will reduce his schedule."
"He has never reduced anything for them."
"He says you have alienated the children against him."
I closed my eyes.
Of course he did.
"What else?"
Melissa hesitated.
"He is asking for a psychological evaluation."
"Of me?"
"Yes."
"On what basis?"
"He claims you've been emotionally unstable since leaving your career."
I almost dropped the phone.
The career he convinced me to leave.
The sacrifice he praised when it benefited him.
Now it was proof that something was wrong with me.
That evening, a process server handed me forty-seven pages at the front door.
Ava stood behind me reading over my shoulder.
"He says you're unstable?"
"Go inside."
"Mom."
"Inside, Ava."
She did not move.
"I have something."
"What?"
She disappeared upstairs.
Two minutes later, she came back carrying an old laptop.
"This used to be Dad's. He gave it to me when he upgraded."
"Okay."
"His messages still sync sometimes."
My stomach dropped.
"Ava, don't open his private messages."
"I already did."
She turned the screen toward me.
There was a conversation between Richard and a contact saved as V.
Vanessa.
The messages were not romantic.
They were worse.
One from three weeks earlier read:
If Claire leaves, we frame it as burnout. Six kids, no career, overwhelmed, maybe depression. People will believe that before they believe me cheating.
And Vanessa's reply was sitting right underneath it.
May you like
Then start planting it now.
