Chapter 7 - The Confrontation in the Kitchen
Derek sat at my kitchen table—the same oak table where he had done his middle-school homework, where Thomas had sat drinking coffee on Sunday mornings, and where I had packed his bags for college.
I set a glass of water in front of him and sat down opposite him.
"She’s leaving me, Mom," Derek said, staring into his glass, tears welling in his eyes. "Brianna told me this morning that if I don't get you to drop the lawsuit by Friday, she’s filing for divorce and taking the baby to her parents' house in Atlanta."
I sat quietly, keeping my hands folded in my lap. "And what did you say to her, Derek?"
"I begged her to stay," Derek sobbed, covering his face with his hands. "I told her we could fix this. But she called me a weak, pathetic loser who couldn't even manage his own mother."
He looked up at me, his face red and blotchy. "How did we get here, Mom? How did everything go so wrong?"
"You got here, Derek," I said softly, "because you traded your integrity for an illusion. You let your wife treat your mother like an embarrassment while using her money to pretend you were rich."
"I was trying to keep her happy!" Derek yelled, his voice cracking. "You don't know what she’s like, Mom! If I didn't give her the house, the car, the club... she looked at me like I was nothing! I was terrified of losing her!"
"So you chose to lose me instead," I replied, my voice slicing through his hysteria.
Derek flinched, pulling his hands back.
"I spent thirty-one years working in a library, Derek," I told him, looking him straight in the eyes. "Your father worked twelve-hour shifts at the hardware store until his heart gave out. We gave you everything we had so you would grow up to be an honest, respectful man. But the second a polished woman came along and told you that your mother was 'low class,' you stood by and let her pull my chair away."
"I was wrong," Derek wept, sliding out of his chair and dropping to his knees on my linoleum floor, clutching my hands. "I was so wrong, Mom. Please... please help me. They’re going to take the house. My job is gone. I have nothing left."
I looked down at my son kneeling on the floor. A year ago, I would have dropped to my knees, wrapped my arms around him, and written another check to make his pain go away.
But I realized that helping him avoid the consequences of his actions was not love; it was enabling his rot.
"I will not drop the lawsuit, Derek," I said clearly.
Derek froze, looking up at me in absolute horror. "What?"
"I will not drop the lawsuit," I repeated. "However, my attorney will agree to a court-approved structured settlement. You will sell the colonial house. The proceeds will be used to pay off your debts and return the one hundred and five thousand dollars to my retirement fund. Whatever is left over, you can use to start your life over."
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"And if Brianna refuses to sell?" Derek stammered.
"Then the court will order a forced partition sale," I told him coldly. "And you will learn what happens when you build a house on someone else's foundation."
