“Let’s keep this between us,” she said. “Your mom wasn’t even around that much anyway. And now you’re making your dad choose.”
I couldn’t move.
“You’re not six anymore,” she continued. “Men your age don’t act like this. You need to stop.”
Jake’s shoulders were hunched. He wasn’t crying—just staring at the wall like he was bracing for impact.
Something in me cracked.
Sarah turned and saw me standing there. Her face flashed with surprise, then annoyance.
“I was helping him,” she said quickly. “You’re making it worse by coddling him. He needs to grow up.”
I told her—quietly, because Jake was right there—that she had no right. Not now. Not ever.
She scoffed. “You’re being emotionally manipulated by a teenager. He’s playing it up for attention.”
That was it.
I told her she was wrong. That grief doesn’t have an age limit. That my son lost his mother and I would choose him every single time.
She crossed her arms and said, “Then you’re choosing him over our marriage.”
She packed a bag that night and said she was going to stay with her sister “until this whole weird thing is over.”
After she left, I sat on Jake’s bed. He didn’t say anything. He just leaned into me like he used to when he was little, and I held him.
And now, in the quiet aftermath, I’m realizing something I didn’t expect.
I don’t miss her.
I’m not sure I want her back.
Because anyone who sees a grieving child as competition isn’t someone I trust in my home—or in my son’s life.
