Chapter 2

I did not sleep that night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jordan standing in Tasha’s driveway with shoes splitting at the sides while the other kids flashed brand-new sneakers beside him.

I did not hate Mia and Carter.

They were children.

They deserved shoes too.

But my son deserved not to be treated like the family emergency fund.

At two in the morning, I opened my laptop and started making a folder.

Receipts.

Transfer records.

Texts.

Screenshots.

Every extra payment I had sent over the last two years.

Winter coat money.

Summer camp money.

Field trip money.

Dental copay money.

Back-to-school money.

Each one had notes.

For Jordan.

For Jordan’s coat.

For Jordan’s trip.

For Jordan’s dental bill.

Then I checked my old messages with Jordan.

My throat tightened.

Dad, can you send lunch money? Mom said later.

Dad, do you have extra socks at your house?

Dad, my headphones broke but don’t tell Mom I asked.

Dad, can I keep my gym shoes at your place so they don’t get lost?

Lost.

That word appeared too often.

Things I bought kept getting “lost.”

Hoodies.

Chargers.

Sports gear.

Gift cards.

I had told myself kids misplaced things.

Now I wondered how many of Jordan’s things had been redistributed in that house.

At six in the morning, my attorney, Denise Walker, called me back.

Denise had handled the custody agreement after the breakup.

She was calm, sharp, and allergic to nonsense.

“Marcus,” she said, “what happened?”

I told her everything.

She listened without interrupting.

When I finished, she said, “This is not just about the money.”

“I know.”

“It is about resource diversion and possible emotional neglect.”

The word neglect made my stomach twist.

“Tasha loves him,” I said quickly.

“Love and harm can exist in the same house.”

I hated that sentence.

Because it sounded true.

Denise continued.

“We can request more specific orders. Receipts for designated expenses. Reimbursement. Possibly a custody modification if this is part of a pattern.”

“A pattern,” I repeated.

“Is it?”

I looked at the message thread.

“Yes.”

My voice cracked.

“I think it is.”

Monday morning, I picked Jordan up for the first day of school.

That was in our agreement.

Every year, I took pictures before drop-off.

Tasha used to join us.

That year, she refused to come outside.

Jordan came down the porch wearing his new jeans, new shoes, and new backpack.

For once, everything fit.

He looked happy for about three seconds.

Then he looked guilty.

“You look good, son,” I said.

He shrugged.

“Thanks.”

Mia appeared at the door behind him.

She smiled.

“Nice shoes, Jordan.”

He smiled back.

“Thanks.”

Carter came too.

His red high-tops lit up as he bounced.

“Are yours faster than mine?”

Jordan laughed.

“Probably.”

For one small moment, they were just kids.

Then Tasha stepped into the doorway.

“Jordan, don’t let your father make you think you’re better than anybody.”

His smile disappeared.

I felt heat rise in my chest.

“Tasha.”

She looked at me.

“What? I’m teaching him humility.”

“No. You’re teaching him guilt.”

Her eyes flashed.

“Don’t psychoanalyze me on my porch.”

Jordan whispered, “Dad, let’s go.”

So I did.

Because first day of school did not need a fight burned into it.

But after I dropped him off, I drove straight to Denise’s office.

We filed the motion that afternoon.

By Wednesday, Tasha knew.

She called me twenty-one times.

I answered once.

“You took me to court?” she shouted.

“I filed a motion.”

“Over clothes?”

“Over misuse of funds.”

“You are trying to punish my other kids.”

“No. I am trying to protect mine.”

“They are his siblings.”

“They are not his financial responsibility.”

She went quiet.

Then her voice changed.

Low.

Angry.

“You always thought you were better than me.”

“No, Tasha. I thought we were both supposed to put Jordan first.”

“I do.”

“Then why were his shoes splitting?”

She hung up.

That evening, Jordan called from her house.

His voice was small.

“Dad, Mom’s crying.”

I closed my eyes.

“I’m sorry you’re dealing with that.”

“She says you’re trying to take me away.”

My hand tightened around the phone.

“Jordan, listen to me. I am not trying to hurt your mom. I am trying to make sure you have what you need.”

“She said Mia and Carter might hate me.”

Anger rolled through me.

“They won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they love you. And because none of this is your fault.”

He was quiet.

Then he whispered, “It feels like my fault.”

That was the moment I knew the court filing had been necessary.

Not optional.

Necessary.

“No, son,” I said. “Adults made adult choices. You are the child. You do not carry this.”

He sniffed.

“Okay.”

But he did not sound like he believed me.

The first hearing was set for the following month.

Until then, Denise advised me to communicate only through the parenting app.

No phone arguments.

No cash transfers.

All payments documented.

All reimbursements receipt-based.

Tasha hated that.

She called it controlling.

I called it clarity.

The next weekend, Jordan came over with a trash bag instead of his overnight duffel.

I stared at it.

“What happened to your bag?”

He looked embarrassed.

“Mom said if you want to be strict about money, you can buy me a new one for here.”

I took the trash bag gently.

Inside were two shirts, pajama pants, and no socks.

I kept my voice calm.

“Okay.”

He looked up fast.

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m mad,” I said. “Not at you.”

He nodded.

But his face folded anyway.

That night, after he fell asleep, I sat in the hallway outside his room.

I heard him whispering.

At first, I thought he was on the phone.

Then I realized he was talking in his sleep.

“I don’t need it,” he mumbled.

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“I’m fine.”

I covered my mouth and cried silently in the dark.