Part 3The Men Who Believed in Melanie

A month passed before my grandparents caught wind of the split.

The moment they realized their golden boy had given up the marital residence, they drove two hours from their rural township, storming our suburban driveway like a pair of vengeful specters.

Mom didn't bother arguing with them on the porch. She pulled out her phone, called Dad, and said, "Your parents are banging on my door. Get over here and get them off my property before I call the sheriff."

By the time Dad’s rusted loaner sedan pulled up to the curb, Grandma was already red-faced, spraying spittle across our entryway.

"Do you have no shame, Helen? Getting divorced without consulting the family? And keeping the house? My Frank paid for this roof! If anyone’s walking away empty-handed, it’s you! Get your things and get out of my son’s home!"

Mom leaned against the hallway doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. "The divorce is final, Mrs. Miller. The division of property was agreed upon between Frank and me. If you have an issue with his decisions, take it up with him. And since we are legally strangers, I’ll ask you to leave my house."

"Your house? Who the hell do you think you're talking to?" Grandma shrilled, puffing up like an enraged hen. "You can divorce Frank, but Arthur and I are still Sadie’s blood grandparents! Grandparent visitation is protected by law! You try to keep us from our grandchild, and we’ll sue you for parental alienation!"

Mom let out a short, humorless laugh.

Dad scurried up the walkway, his face flushed with embarrassment. He grabbed Grandma’s sleeve. "Mom, stop it. Let's just go. I willingly gave the house and the car to Helen and Sadie."

Grandma spun on him, her voice reaching an octave that set the neighborhood dogs barking. "Are you out of your mind? Giving her everything? Not until you explain yourself, Frank!"

Dad lowered his eyes, trying desperately to sound like a martyr. "Mom... Helen and I were together ten years. Sadie needs stability. The house is my way of compensating them. It’s an investment in Sadie’s future."

"Oh, please," Mom sneered, the contempt in her voice slicing through the humid air. "Look at you, Frank. Still hiding behind your ten-year-old daughter to play the saint. Have you got an ounce of dignity left?"

"Helen, don't you dare—" Dad hissed, panic flickering in his eyes.

Mom ignored him completely. She looked Grandma dead in the eye.

"Mrs. Miller, since your precious son doesn't have the spine to tell you, allow me. Your boy had an affair. He found his 'soulmate' on the internet. And this soulmate is supposedly carrying the precious Miller family heirs—twin boys."

Grandma blinked, stunned into momentary silence.

"Frank sold his entire machine shop," Mom continued, her voice clear and cutting. "He sold the tools, emptied our savings accounts, and handed every last cent over to this woman. What did he leave me with? An underwater mortgage and four years of car notes. And for the record, this house wasn't bought with his money alone. We bought it together, with marital funds, while I worked fifty hours a week."

Grandma’s brain clearly couldn't process the flood of facts. She ignored the part about the stolen money, latching onto the word boys like a starving hound. But before she could open her mouth to screech again, Dad’s phone rang.

Dad flinched. He fumbled frantically with his pocket, trying to swipe the screen, but his clumsy thumb accidentally jammed the speakerphone icon.

The voice that roared out of the speaker was loud, crude, and unmistakably male.

"I don't give a damn who you are. Stay the hell away from my wife, Melanie."

Dad froze, his expression morphing into utter bewilderment. He brought the phone to his mouth and shouted back: "Melanie is my wife!"

A cynical snort came through the line. "You're full of shit. Melanie is my wife, and she's right here in my bed carrying my son."

Dad lost all composure, screaming into the microphone: "She's carrying my twin boys, you lunatic!"

They screamed over each other for ten solid minutes on our front porch, trading obscenities and absurd details, until the reality of what he was hearing finally cracked Dad's fragile skull.

His knees buckled. He sank onto the porch step, hyperventilating.

Then he scrambled up, pressed the screen with trembling fingers, and wailed:

"Operator? Send the police! My wife... my wife has vanished!"