Chapter 4
When Richard arrived, he was driving that black Audi.
He showed up alone, without bringing Linda or Michael with him.
Once he stepped inside, he scanned the living room.
There was a faint look of judgment in his eyes, like he was making sure this place really wasn't good enough for his son.
"Have a seat," I said.
He sat down, crossing his legs like he owned the place. "Jane, are the identification documents ready?"
"Yes."
"Then—"
"Hold on, let me show you something first."
I slid the account book across the coffee table toward him.
He hesitated for a second, then picked it up and began leafing through the pages.
"What's this?" Richard asked.
"It's a record of every dollar I spent raising Michael from when he was one to fourteen," I replied.
He flipped through a couple of pages, his brow furrowing. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Go ahead, add it up yourself."
"Jane, I'm just here to pick up the identification documents, not to settle accounts with you."
"If you won't do it, I will."
I slid a piece of paper across the table to him.
It was the number I'd punched into the calculator last night.
"I've spent 145,933 dollars raising Michael over the past fourteen years," I said.
Richard took a look at the number, his face unreadable.
"That covers formula, tuition, tutoring fees, medical bills, and living expenses. Every single expense is written down. You can see for yourself," I added.
"And then?"
"Over the past fourteen years, all you've given me is 8,667 dollars."
Richard uncrossed his legs. "Jane, what do you mean?"
"It's simple. You can have the identification documents, but you need to cover what you owe."
He stared at me for five seconds.
Then he laughed, "You want me to pay up?"
"I'm not asking for money. You owe me," I said.
"I owe you?" Richard leaned in. "You were the one who wanted out, and you insisted on taking Mike. I told you to leave him with me—"
"You expected me to leave an eight-month-old baby with you and your mistress?"
Richard didn't reply.
The living room fell silent for a few seconds.
"Richard, let's get one thing clear," I said.
My voice wasn't loud, but every word was crystal clear. "I'm not here to dig up old drama.
"But for the past fourteen years, you never paid what you owed in child support, and you can't just walk away from that."
"You're just using this as an excuse to squeeze money out of me," Richard said.
"I've spent over 145 thousand dollars raising your son, and you only chipped in 8,667 dollars. So tell me who's really taking advantage of whom here?"
Richard stood up. "Jane, don't go too far. I'm trying to bring Mike over and give him a better life. If you don't want to cooperate, that's fine. But now you're even bringing up money?"
"If you don't want to talk about money, then forget about the identification documents," I shot back.
Richard was stunned. "What did you just say?"
"I said, if you don't want to talk about money, then the identification documents are off the table. You can leave."
I stood up, walked to the door, and opened it.
Richard stood in the middle of the living room, his face flushed red. "You—"
"The door's right there. Don't let it hit you on the way out," I said.
He stared at me, like he was seeing me for the first time.
In the past fourteen years, it probably never occurred to him that I'd ever push back.
He took a deep breath and forced a smile." Alright, how much do you want?"
"Whatever you owe, that's what you pay. I'm not asking for a single dollar more, and you better not try to short me a single dollar."
"Just tell me the number."
"Go home and work it out yourself. If you can't figure it out, get someone smart to help you."
He picked up the account book from the table and flipped to the last page.
His eyes paused on that line. [June 18th, watermelon juice, 3 dollars.]
He set the account book down and left without so much as a glance back.
The door closed behind him with a firm click.
I stood in the entryway, listening to his footsteps going down the stairs.
Then I heard the car door open.
The engine started.
The car pulled away.
I went back to the living room and sat down.
My hands were steady.
But my heart was pounding.
My phone rang.
It was a message from Emily: [How'd it go?]
I replied with just three words: [He's gone.]
She texted: [Did you give him the identification documents?]
I replied: [Nope.]
She texted back: [Good job.]
I set my phone down and stared at the piece of paper on the coffee table.
145,933 dollars.
It's not just about the money.
This was fourteen years' worth of burden.
I carried this burden all alone for fourteen years, and he never even knew.
My phone rang again.
It was a message from Michael. [Mom, Dad said you didn't give him the identification documents?]
I looked at the message and didn't reply right away.
A minute later, another message popped up. [Mom, why are you giving Dad a hard time?]
He really said "giving a hard time".
Just like he once talked about me needing to "cooperate".
To him, I was always supposed to cooperate and never give him any trouble.
I typed out a few words, then deleted them.
In the end, I just sent three words: [Ask your dad.]