Chapter 4 - Reality Sets In
The reality of financial independence hit the Cross household like a freight train by Tuesday afternoon.
Melissa’s white SUV—the sleek vehicle I had dutifully financed for three years—was repossessed from our driveway while she was inside complaining about her coffee maker. According to the neighbor who texted me a delighted, anonymous heads-up along with a video clip, Melissa had screamed bloody murder at the tow-truck driver, waving her phone and shouting that her sister-in-law was a millionaire who would pay for it any second. The driver hadn't cared; he hitched the vehicle up and drove away.
Patricia, meanwhile, discovered that her landlord did not accept emotional appeals or family drama as a substitute for rent. When the electronic wire failed, the landlord issued a standard three-day notice to cure or quit. Patricia, accustomed to treating her apartment like a permanent royal suite paid for by her son’s successful wife, called Daniel in hysterics demanding to know why her son couldn't just write a check.
Daniel couldn't write a check because his personal checking balance was blinking negative, and his credit cards were rapidly maxing out as he tried to cover Melissa’s groceries and past-due bills.
That evening, I took Lily and Leo out for a quiet dinner at an upscale Italian restaurant downtown. The kids were remarkably resilient. Once they realized we weren't going back to a house where adults screamed and physical violence was dismissed with a shrug, their shoulders dropped, and their laughter returned.
"Mom," Leo asked as he twirled spaghetti around his fork, "are we ever going back to live with Dad?"
I looked across the table at my son, meeting his wise, steady eyes. "We’re going to figure everything out, buddy. But whatever happens, you and Lily will always live in a safe home where nobody gets hurt."
Lily smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "I like this hotel, Mom. It’s quiet."
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It was quiet. And for the first time in ten years, my home wasn't a boarding house for ungrateful relatives who despised the hand that fed them.
Back at the house, however, the silence was broken by shouting. My security cameras—which I could still access via my phone app—showed Patricia and Melissa packing bags into Patricia’s aging sedan, screaming at Daniel in the entryway while he buried his face in his hands.
