Chapter 5 - The Halfway House
The next two weeks were an exercise in escalation.
My mother tried the guilt angle; Marissa tried the anger angle. When neither worked, they tried the weapon they thought would definitely break me: Tyler.
On a Tuesday evening, I received a text from Marissa’s number, but the voice was clearly dictated by a ten-year-old.
“Uncle Donald, I’m sorry I dropped the Legos. Can you please come over? Mom says we might have to move to a smaller apartment and I don’t want to leave my room.”
It was a text designed to make me feel like a monster. It was designed to make me see myself as the man who evicted his own nephew over a plastic toy.
I sat on my couch, looking at the screen for a long time. I didn't want Tyler to lose his room. I didn't want my mother to be stressed. But I also knew that if I stepped back in now, if I paid even fifty dollars toward that rent, the cycle would reset. The next time Tyler wanted something, the next time Marissa needed a vacation, the bill would come to me.
I called Marissa. She answered on the first ring.
"Donald? Thank God, are you—"
"Put Tyler in the other room," I said. My voice was flat, professional. The voice I used when a customer had too much to drink and needed to be cut off before things got ugly.
A moment of silence passed, the sound of a door closing, and then Marissa’s sharp breath. "He’s gone. Donald, you need to understand—"
"No, you need to listen," I said. "You used your son to try and guilt me into paying for your lifestyle. That's the lowest thing you've done yet."
"We don't have the money, Donald!" she yelled, her voice dropping the mask. "Do you want us to be homeless? Is that what your pride is worth?"
"You make twenty-two dollars an hour, Marissa. You work thirty hours a week. Mom has her pension. That’s nearly four thousand dollars a month combined before taxes. The rent is fourteen seventy-five. Don't tell me you don't have the money. Tell me you don't want to spend your money on the rent."
"We have expenses!"
"So do I," I said. "And for the last year, my biggest expense has been supporting two grown women who don't think I'm worth a 'thank you' on Christmas morning. You want to keep the house? Sell your designer bags. Cancel your subscriptions. Get a second shift. Do what I did."
"You're a selfish jerk," she spat.
May you like
"Maybe," I said. "But I'm a selfish jerk with a balanced bank account. You have until the fifth, Marissa. Figure it out."
I hung up before she could respond. My heart was pounding, but for the first time in my life, I didn't feel guilty. I felt clean.
