Chapter 6: No More Mrs. Nice Mom

When we got home, Mark—who was supposed to be on a business trip—was sitting on the sofa watching ESPN.

The room smelled like old beer and aftershave, the air thick with things unsaid. He was nursing a Budweiser, sneakers kicked off on the carpet, remote balanced on his knee.

I remembered: he must have rushed back after a call from his ex-wife.

Before this, I’d called him several times, hoping he could make time to attend Natalie’s graduation party. He always claimed he was too busy with work.

But if his ex-wife so much as complained that he didn’t care about his daughter, he’d drop everything and rush back.

Some things never change. For Mark, Rachel would always come first.

When it comes to first loves, nothing else compares.

When Natalie saw her dad, she gleefully ran into his arms.

She grinned for the first time all day, leaping across the room. Mark swung her up in a half-hug, as if she were still six years old.

Mark stroked her hair lovingly and said:

"Sorry, Natalie. Dad was busy with work and couldn’t make it to your graduation party. That’s my fault."

He gave her that soft, apologetic smile he used to save for special occasions. I watched from the doorway, invisible again.

"To make it up to you, whatever gift you want, Dad will get it for you."

Natalie glanced at me provocatively, then clung to her father:

"I want the latest iPhone, and I want to keep taking art lessons."

Her words were deliberate, testing my reaction.

Mark looked to me for my opinion.

I didn’t object like I had in the past, just said lightly, "You’re Natalie’s father. You decide."

I kept my face blank, refusing to play the villain. My hands were folded on my lap, nails digging into my palm, but my voice was steady.

All these years, I’d only let Natalie use a phone watch and a special study tablet. I never gave her a phone because she got addicted so easily. Whenever she had one, she’d barely eat and would stay up late, her eyes bloodshot.

It was always a battle—taking her phone at night, setting parental controls, fighting over screen time. Still, I stood my ground because I thought it was best.

As for art lessons, that was just one of her many extracurriculars. I once paid for six years of classes—$3,000 a year. But her drawing was still a mess.

She’d sketch late into the night, leaving colored pencils scattered across her desk. The results never matched her passion, but I told her I was proud anyway.

Considering her heavy middle school workload, I withdrew her from art class and switched her to even pricier private tutoring. Her grades improved, but she complained I was controlling and said she felt like a puppet.

So now, I don’t interfere and just respect her wishes—as long as I don’t have to pay.

Natalie saw Mark hesitate and grew unhappy.

She pouted, arms folded, shooting daggers at me with her eyes.

"Dad, do you have to look at her face for everything? It’s not even her money. What does it matter to her?"

Mark blinked, caught between us, clearly uncomfortable. The tension in the room thickened.

I sneered, "I really don’t care. As long as your dad is willing to pay, I won’t say a word."

My words hung in the air, cool and final.

Ridiculous.

Does she really think her tuition is paid by Mark? Her annual extracurriculars and interest classes cost over $15,000. Could Mark afford that?

If I hadn’t poured in both money and effort, running around to send her to all those classes, would she ever have become the state’s top scorer?

I wondered if Mark even knew how much a single year of her education cost—or if he thought it all just happened by magic.

My cold expression seemed to irritate Mark.

He bristled, his jaw tightening. A muscle ticked in his cheek as he set his beer down a little too hard.

He suddenly said sarcastically:

"What do you mean? If I don’t pay, then is it you? Even if you pay, it’s with the money I give you."

His voice was sharp, the kind that draws attention at Thanksgiving dinners and makes everyone uncomfortable.

Mark does hand over $1,000 to me every month, but that barely covers daily expenses. How could there be anything left for Natalie’s tutoring?

Looking at Mark’s accusatory eyes, my heart sank even further.

I couldn’t even be bothered to explain. It was pointless:

I took a deep breath, staring at the TV, where a basketball game played in the background. "Whatever you say. Fine. From now on, you pay for your daughter’s expenses directly. Don’t go through me, and you don’t need to give me your $1,000 anymore."

My voice didn’t shake. For once, I sounded like someone who knew her own worth.

Natalie was delighted to hear I didn’t want her dad’s money.

She practically bounced on the couch, a small, triumphant smile on her lips.

"Dad, just give your money to Grandma from now on. That way I won’t have to ask her for pocket money and look at her face every time."

Mark grew angrier:

"Lisa, is this how you usually treat Natalie? She has to beg you for pocket money? Did you use my money to support your own family?"

His words landed like stones. I could feel my fists clench in my lap.

Looking at the man in front of me, I suddenly realized I didn’t know him at all.

The clothes and shoes Natalie wears are all name brands. Each private lesson costs over a hundred dollars. If he cared, he’d know that $1,000 wasn’t even enough to cover the drinks at today’s party for his daughter.

Disappointment doesn’t even begin to describe what I feel right now.

I stared at the framed family photo on the mantle, wondering how it had all turned so bitter and cold.

"Fine, Mark. From today on, you two—father and daughter—don’t bother me with your business. I won’t care about your affairs anymore. And if you push me, don’t blame me for going crazy."

My voice was sharp, ringing out in the quiet room. Years of resentment boiled over.

With a loud bang, I slammed my glass onto the table. Shards of glass flew everywhere, like tiny sprites leaping through the air.

The crash echoed through the living room. A bit of sweet tea splattered on the carpet, but I didn’t care. I was done cleaning up their messes—literal or otherwise.

Natalie and Mark were both stunned.

Their mouths hung open, shock freezing them in place. Mark’s beer dripped onto the carpet unnoticed. Even the dog paused in the doorway, tail between its legs.

In eight years of marriage, this was the first time I had ever lost my temper like this.

And in that moment, I felt a strange, hollow relief. As the shards glittered on the carpet, I realized—I wasn’t the one breaking anymore. I was finally breaking free.