My boys. As if. He’s been absent most of their life. He’s like a revolving door. Only comes around when it’s convenient for him.
I glance at Jackson, who’s poking at the air mattress. “Actually, I was wondering if that’s such a good idea. You haven’t seen them in over a year.”
There’s a pause, and I can feel him gearing up for a fight.
“They’re my kids too, Honey,” he growls. “Or did you forget that part?”
My hands curl into fists. He certainly seems to forget it most of the time.
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” I reply calmly for my son’s sake. “I just think maybe we should ease into it. Maybe start with lunch or something.”
“There’s a court order, remember?” The threat in his voice is clear. “I get them one weekend a month.”
A lot of good that court order did in enforcing the child support he’s supposed to pay. It’s been years since he’s given me a single penny, despite the judge’s orders.
“I know what the order says,” I breathe through my annoyance. “But Jackson’s diabetes requires?—”
“Jesus Christ, Honey,” he cuts me off. “I know how to take care of my own son.”
“No, Erik!” I finally snap. “You don’t.” He doesn’t know the first thing about managing Jackson’s blood sugar or what to do if he has an episode.
“You don’t want to piss me off, Honey.”
I swallow all the things I want to hurl back at him.
“Fine,” I concede. “But I really don’t think an overnight is a good idea yet. Not until Jackson is comfortable with?—”
“Have my kids ready by ten tomorrow,” he interrupts again. “I’ll have them back Sunday evening.”
“Erik—”
The line goes dead. I pull the phone away from my ear and stare down at the blank screen.
That asshole hung up on me.
I stare at my phone, fury bubbling inside me. Eight years, and he still knows exactly how to push my freaking buttons.
“Why do you look mad, Mommy?”
I glance up at Jackson. His little face is scrunched with concern.
Forcing a smile, I reach out and ruffle his hair. “I’m not mad, sweetie. Just tired from all the moving.”
“Was that Daddy?” he asks, eyes bright with hope.
My heart squeezes. “Yes. Actually, he’s coming to pick you and Tommy up tomorrow for the weekend.”
Jackson’s eyes widen. “Really? Daddy’s coming here?”
I nod, trying to match his enthusiasm. “Yep. So we need to pack a bag for you and your brother.”
Tommy appears in the doorway, hair wet from his shower, wearing his favorite Spider-Man pajamas. “Who’s coming here?”
“Dad,” Jackson blurts out. “We get to go for the whole weekend!”
Tommy frowns, not sharing the same excitement as his little brother. At eight, he remembers more about his father’s broken promises than his little brother does.
“He won’t come, Jackson.” Tommy sighs. “He never does.
