Part 3Sharing My Home With Her Ex

"I know, I know. You're absolutely right," my dad’s voice trembled with a quiet, heartbreaking resignation. "I didn't want to intrude. Mark practically dragged me here."

"Well, no offense, but you should have put your foot down," Chad replied, his tone dripping with arrogant authority. "Now they're fighting because of you. This house was perfectly peaceful until you showed up and ruined the vibe."

I pushed the door open to see my dad struggling to stand up, his face etched with deep shame.

"It's my fault," Dad murmured. "I’m just a burden to these kids. I'll pack my things right now."

"Nobody is leaving," I said, stepping fully into the room. "The man of this house isn't dead yet."

Chad jumped, fumbling awkwardly for his crutches, his face draining of color.

My dad reached out, gripping my wrist with a weak, trembling hand. "Mark, please, just let me go back to my apartment. I’ll figure out how to take care of myself, I promise. It’s okay."

I glared at Chad, my eyes burning holes through him. "Who stays and who leaves isn't up to a houseguest who's overstayed his welcome."

Chad’s jaw tightened. "I was just trying to look out for your marriage, man. I'm your best friend. Nobody wants to see you and Lena happy more than I do."

"If you're really my best friend, then remember your place. Stop crossing boundaries."

I gently pushed my dad back down onto the mattress. "You stay right here, Dad. This is your house, too. As long as I'm breathing, nobody is going to disrespect you under my roof."

Chad’s face hardened. He let out a bitter little scoff. "No good deed goes unpunished, I guess."

Lena didn't come out of our bedroom for the rest of the day.

But as evening approached, she suddenly left the house, returning an hour later laden with bags of fresh groceries. She rarely cooked—that was my domain—but today, she moved around the kitchen with a frantic, theatrical energy. The exhaust fan roared for over an hour.

Eventually, the rich, savory smell of roasted meat and garlic filled the house. She brought four elaborate dishes and a pot of soup to the dining table.

Against my better judgment, my chest softened just a fraction. Maybe she wasn't entirely cold. Maybe she realized she had crossed a line and this was her olive branch.

Lena arranged the silverware, not bothering to look up. "Chad! Noah! Dinner is ready!"

I froze. My eyes locked onto the table.

She had only set three plates.

A few feet away, my dad had just shuffled out of his room. He stopped dead in his tracks in the hallway, looking at the table, unsure if he was allowed to take another step. He didn't say a word. He just clutched his stomach, hunched over his surgical wounds, and slowly, painfully, turned around and limped back into his bedroom.

It felt like someone had driven a spike through my chest. I couldn't breathe.

I was an idiot. How could I have been so naive? A person’s fundamental nature doesn't change just because you want it to.

I walked over to the table, picked up a bowl, and began aggressively piling it high with food. Lena shot me a venomous glare. I ignored her entirely. Once the bowl was overflowing, I grabbed a second bowl, filled it with hot soup, and carried both to my dad’s room.

He refused to eat. He just sat on the edge of the bed, repeating over and over that he needed to leave.

"You and Lena are already having issues. I can't throw gasoline on the fire," he pleaded, his voice breaking. He grabbed my hand. "Please, Mark, listen to me. Chad is your friend. He’s already here. Don't cause a scene and try to kick him out. He’ll heal, and he’ll leave. For the sake of your family, for Noah’s sake, just swallow your pride and endure it for a little while."

For the sake of Noah. For the sake of the family.

Why was I always the only one required to suffer for the sake of the family? Did I create this child by myself? What had my endless stream of compromises ever actually bought me?

"Dad," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "If you leave tonight, I will never have an ounce of dignity in this house again."

If he walked out that door, it would only prove to Lena that she could treat me and the people I loved like garbage, and I would always fold.

"But..." Dad sighed, a heavy, rattling sound, his face deeply lined with worry.

I looked down at my hands, my knuckles white, my mind a violent storm of grief and rage.

The next morning at 7:00 AM, I got out of bed, splashed cold water on my face, and walked out to make breakfast.

When I reached the kitchen, I stopped dead.

My dad had already cooked a full breakfast. Not only that, but he had vacuumed the living room. The wet clothes I had left in the washing machine last night were neatly folded and draped over the drying rack.

His incisions hadn't healed. He couldn't even stand up straight. I couldn't let myself imagine the sheer, agonizing physical pain he must have been in while pushing a vacuum cleaner around.

The bedroom door clicked open, and Lena walked out. Instantly, my dad plastered on a wide, eager smile.

"Good morning, Lena! Breakfast is ready. I made all your favorites!"