Chapter 8
By the third week, trouble hit.
Lucas wet his pants at school.
And it wasn't the first time. The teacher called to say he'd wet himself three times this week, wondering if something was wrong at home.
When I went to pick him up, he sat there with his head hanging low, wearing his backup pair of pants, too embarrassed to look at me.
"Lucas, what's wrong? Did you not make it to the bathroom in time?" I asked softly.
He shook his head.
"Then why?" I pressed gently.
He stayed silent, his eyes rimmed with tears.
On the way home, he finally whispered, "Mom, I don't want to go home."
My heart twisted with pain. "Why?"
"It smells bad at home, and Great-Aunt Linda keeps making noises. I'm scared."
I crouched down and pulled him into my arms.
He was only six years old. He should be running around in a bright, clean house, watching cartoons and munching on snacks.
But now, he was scared to even come home.
That night, I finally had it out with David.
"Have you even noticed what's going on with Lucas?" I asked him.
"What are you talking about?" he said, sounding confused.
"He's wet his pants at school three times this week. He told me he doesn't even want to come home."
David set his phone down and frowned. "Maybe I should ask my mom to be more considerate?"
"Considerate about what? Not letting your aunt scream in the middle of the night? Making sure the diaper smell doesn't choke us out? Or maybe not letting someone who's bedridden take away my son's play area?"
"Keep your voice down."
"Why should I lower my voice?" My voice was trembling. "For eight years, have I ever yelled? Have I ever even spoken up? But now it's hurting our son. David, are you finally going to do something or not?"
He stood up and scrubbed his face. "So what do you want me to do?"
"Send her to a nursing home. Or hire someone to take care of her back home."
"My mom would never agree to that."
"Then let your mom go with her, too."
He gave me a look I couldn't read. "What do you mean by that?"
"That's all I mean. I'm telling you that I can't go on like this anymore."
Margaret's voice rang out from the hallway. "If you can't handle it, then leave. This is David's place."
She was standing right there in the doorway. I had no clue how much she'd overheard.
"That's right," she jabbed her finger at me. "Get out. Who do you think you are? You've been part of this family for eight years and haven't contributed a dime..."
"Mom." David finally raised his voice.
"So now you're sticking up for her, huh?" Margaret's tears came pouring down. "I raised you for thirty years, and even at sixty-three, I'm still babysitting your kid. Is this what I get in return?"
David opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Watching all this, I felt completely drained.
It wasn't physical exhaustion. It was the kind that settles deep in your bones, the kind that drains you from the inside out.
"I'll go do the dishes," I turned and walked out of the bedroom.
The door closed behind me.
Inside, I could hear Margaret sobbing and David's low, comforting voice.
No one ever came to comfort me.
Not once.