"Don't." Zoe's hands are shaking as she points at him. "Don't you dare try to act like you're the victim here. You're the one abandoning us."
I watch my daughter's face contort with fury, and a wave of helplessness overcomes me, strong enough that I have to prevent myself from screaming.
Mitchell takes another step toward his daughter, his handsome face tight with anger.
"I'm just moving to Boston," Mitchell says, gesturing toward me like I'm some ornament, standing on the porch. "Jasmine and I need a fresh start away from your mother."
What a bunch of lies. Mitchell isn't leaving to get a fresh start away from me. There's no good way to frame what he's doing or to justify his moving four hours away from his kids. Apparently, Zoe isn't buying his bullshit either.
"You're nothing but a coward!"
A muffled, primal cry rips from her throat and she kicks the box with all her strength, sending it tumbling across the grass.
"I just need to focus on myself for a bit, that's all." Mitchell snaps back. "You don’t know how hard it is to stay in a loveless marriage. One day, you'll understand."
Ow. That hurts. The casual way he says it? Yeah, it hurts like a bitch. Still, I stay silent, holding Matthew's hand as he molds himself to me. This entire fiasco is going to leave a scar inside him for sure.
"That's bullshit and you know it!" Zoe is out of control now, screaming at the top of her lungs in the front yard. I can almost feel the eyes of our neighbors on us.
I don't care, but by the look on Mitchell's face, he does. Good. Maybe I'm a bitch, but I sure as heck am enjoying seeing him embarrassed.
"Language, Zoe—" Mitchell is losing his cool; I can see it in his face.
"No!" She's screaming now, her voice cracking. The tears she managed to hold back are now flowing down her cheeks freely. "You want to talk about language? How about 'I promise I'llnever leave you' or 'families stick together no matter what' or my personal favorite—'I would never do anything to hurt you kids.' Remember saying that, Dad? Because I do!"
Matthew flinches at her volume, pressing closer against my leg. I can feel him trembling, and my heart breaks a little more.
It's surprising. I didn't think I could hurt more, and yet here I am. Because nothing could hurt more than watching my daughter's heart being ripped to shreds and being helpless to help her.
"I meant all of that," Mitchell says, his voice quieter now. "I still mean it. I'm not leaving you kids. I'll see you on the weekends."
"Here's what I think of your weekends."
The box splits open as Zoe kicks it again, spilling its contents across the lawn. I recognize some of Mitchell's old high school trophies, a few picture frames, a coffee mug the kids and I bought him last Christmas that says World's Best Dad. The irony isn't lost on me.
She turns and storms back toward the house, slamming the front door so hard that Matthew jumps against me. I'd normally never let her speak like that, but nothing I could say would reach her right now. She's drowning in hurt and anger. She deserved to say what was on her heart. Mitchell owed her at least this much.
I observe as Mitchell's handsome, movie-star face crumples as he stares at the closed front door. He's hurt; I can see it. A small part of me is happy he's wounded. As much as I try, I can't summon any sympathy for him.
After all, he's getting a whole new life. He's getting to drive away and leave me to deal with the mess he's made.
Ugh. What a self-pity party I'm throwing.
"Rika." Mitchell's voice is sharp as he finally turns to me. "You need to talk to her. She can't speak to me like that."
I look up at him, this man I thought I'd grow old with, and feel nothing but exhaustion. "No."
"What do you mean, no?" He throws his hands up in the air and looks at me like I've grown a scaly snout.
"This is your mess, Mitchell." The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. "You fix it."
He shoves the spilled items roughly back into the broken box, his movements jerky with frustration. His lavender wings are stiff at his back, a sure sign that he's about to blow in anger. "She's out of control and disrespectful."
"She's hurt, and she's thirteen. What else do you expect from her?"
Mitchell throws the damaged box into his car and the sound of broken ceramic rings in the air. So much for the World's Best Dad mug.
"This isn't easy for me either, you know," he says.
