Chapter 4 - The School Report
Vanessa laughed. It was a sharp, barking sound that had no humor in it.
“Pack my things? Are you out of your mind? We’re married, Andy. You can’t just kick me out because of a chore schedule. You’re being ridiculous!”
“I’m not arguing with you,” I said, my voice dangerously steady. “Take Jayden. Go to a hotel. Go to your mother’s house in Norman. But if you are in this house when the sun goes down, I’m changing the locks with the police standing on the porch.”
“On what grounds?” she sneered, crossing her arms. “For making a twelve-year-old take out the garbage? Go ahead! Call Officer Miller down the street. See what he says! He’ll tell you parenting isn't a crime!”
“Mom?” Jayden whined from the stairs. “Are we going to school? I don't have my lunch.”
Vanessa shot a murderous look at Ethan. “Look what you did. You ruined this family. I told you your father didn't want to deal with your laziness.”
Ethan took a step backward, his face crumbling.
“Stop talking to him,” I roared.
The roar rattled the glass in the pantry door. Vanessa gasped, stepping back into the dining room. I had never raised my voice in that house. In three years of marriage, I had been the mediator, the calm provider, the man who smoothed things over with a checkbook and an apology.
Seeing me snap terrified her far more than any legal threat.
“Come on, Jayden,” she muttered, her voice trembling with rage. “Get your shoes. We’re leaving. Your stepfather has lost his mind.”
They left twenty minutes later. The garage door rattled shut, and Vanessa’s white SUV backed down the driveway with tires screeching against the asphalt.
The house fell into a terrifying, unnatural quiet.
Duke walked over, sitting heavily against Ethan’s knees, resting his golden muzzle on the boy’s thigh. Ethan stood by the kitchen island, his hands still trembling, staring at the floor.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” he whispered.
A heavy, suffocating pain twisted in my gut. I knelt down on the cold kitchen floor until my eyes were level with his.
“Look at me, Ethan.”
He hesitated, then lifted his eyes. They were wet, red-rimmed, and filled with a sorrow that no twelve-year-old should ever possess.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” I said, emphasizing every single word. “Nothing. Do you hear me? Not the rake. Not the trash. Not the missing assignments. None of it.”
“She said... she said you were working so hard because we were expensive,” Ethan choked out, the tears finally breaking over his eyelashes. “She said if I didn't help out twice as much, you’d have to sell the house and we’d have to live in an apartment, and it would be my fault.”
I felt the bile rise in my throat.
*We were expensive.*
I had been sending three thousand dollars a month into our joint household account on top of paying the mortgage, utilities, car insurance, and groceries directly from my personal account.
“That was a lie,” I told him, wiping a tear from his cheek with my thumb. “She lied to you to make you work. And I was blind, Ethan. I was gone, and I trusted the wrong person, and I let you down.”
He threw his arms around my neck, sobbing so hard his small chest heaved against my ribs. I held him there on the kitchen floor for ten straight minutes while Duke licked his sneakers.
At 8:30 a.m., instead of sending Ethan on the bus, I called the middle school.
“Mrs. Gable?” I said when the guidance office patched me through to his seventh-grade homeroom teacher. “This is Andrew Mitchell. Ethan’s father.”
There was a heavy pause on the other end. “Mr. Mitchell. I’m glad you called. We’ve been trying to reach you directly for three weeks.”
“I’m in town,” I said. “I’d like to come in. Now.”
Twenty minutes later, Ethan was sitting in the library with a hot chocolate from the drive-thru, and I was sitting across from Mrs. Gable and Principal Henderson in a small conference room that smelled of dry-erase markers and damp coats.
Mrs. Gable opened a manila folder.
“Mr. Mitchell, we were under the impression that you were aware of Ethan’s situation,” she began cautiously. “Mrs. Mitchell told us you were dealing with family medical issues out of state, and that Ethan was having behavioral regressions.”
“Behavioral regressions?” I repeated.
She slid three sheets of paper toward me.
They were incident reports.
*October 12: Ethan fell asleep during 2nd period English. When awakened, he was disoriented and complained of stomach cramps.*
*October 19: Ethan was found in the cafeteria during 4th period trying to eat leftover crackers from the recycling bin. Stated he forgot his lunch.*
*October 24: Ethan failed to submit science project. Claimed his computer privileges were revoked at home.*
I stared at the pages. The room seemed to tilt.
“He forgot his lunch?” I whispered. “I pay eighty dollars a month into his prepaid cafeteria account.”
Principal Henderson adjusted his glasses. “Mr. Mitchell, his account has had a zero balance since September 15th. We sent three automated emails to the primary address on file.”
“The primary address is Vanessa’s,” I said, the words tasting like ash.
“Whenever we called,” Mrs. Gable added gently, “Mrs. Mitchell assured us that Ethan was being disciplined at home for lying and that she was packing him cold lunches. But on three occasions, other students shared their food with him because he didn't have anything in his backpack except a bottle of water and two dry granola bars.”
I closed my eyes.
May you like
While I was dining on prime rib at regional sales dinners in Fort Worth, my son was begging for crackers in a middle school cafeteria because the woman I married had emptied his lunch card.
***
