My husband treats me as if I do not exist unless he needs someone to blame.
My son has learned to follow his lead and sees my boundaries as hostility.
I work alone, parent alone, and fight alone.
When I discover Dan drinking with other women while claiming he is the victim, I understand the dynamic fully.
This marriage no longer protects me or my child.
It only drains me.
Filing for divorce becomes the first decision I make for myself in years.
Sunday nights are the hardest.
Tyler is dragging his feet, crying over homework thats due tomorrow, while Dan is lost in his own world, gaming with his headphones on, utterly indifferent.
No one wants anything to do with me.
Tyler is glaring at me, teary-eyed from my scolding; Dan is pretending not to notice, clearly annoyed by my presence.
Im left standing by the table, clearing up their plates, whispering to myself that its all my own fault.
But my heart aches.
Late at night, Dan slips away to the study, Tyler falls asleep, tear stains on his cheeks, and I find myself in the bathroom, looking at my own weary reflection.
This is the third month of Dans silent treatment. Three long monthsI can hardly remember why were fighting.
Under the same roof, he hasnt said a word to me. I refuse to give in; Im convinced hes at fault. But sleeplessness nags at me.
I walk to Tylers room to tidy up his backpack.
And there, on his desk, I see the new journal I got him. Under Rewards, written in that innocent, clumsy handwriting, I see:
I wish Mom would just disappear.


I blink, thinking Ive read it wrong.
I pick up the journal and take it to the living room, reading that line again.
I wish Mom would just disappear.
Shes so scary when she yells at Dad; she chased him away.
I collapse on the couch, numb, feeling an overwhelming, dull ache settle in.
The study light flips off as Dan emerges, grinning. The moment he sees me, his usual icy expression returns.
He doesnt say a word, just picks up his car keys from the coffee table.
As he walks past, I catch a whiff of his cologneVanilla Musk.
Its the same scent I picked out for him in college when we started dating. Back then, he was a tech geek, always in black-framed glasses and a white T-shirt, hopelessly oblivious to style.
I remember teasing him, A little cologne goes a long way with girls.
He promised hed keep it because I liked it.
And hes used it ever since.
The familiar scent stirs memories of who he was, of our better times, and of the family I desperately want to keep whole for Tylers sake.
The pain my son caused me rushes back, and without thinking, I stand up and grab Dans arm.
Dan, please, can we talk?
Tears silently slip down my face as I stand behind him.
He jerks his arm away.
I notice his phone screen: hes on a call.
Who is he talking to this late at night, wearing cologne?
Dan, are you coming down? Ive been craving BBQ all week! A girls voice comes through, laughing flirtatiously.
That soft, sweet tone brings back all the reasons were in this fight.
I turn to leave, but Dan grabs my arm again.
With a smirk, he says, Beg me, and Ill stay with you and Tyler tonight.
Dan has always reveled in the moment I give in, that satisfaction of seeing me break, especially now that some young girl is competing for his attention.
The way he stayslike hes doing us a favor.


I laughed, but not in amusement. Beg you? As if I made Tyler all by myself. Youre his father, too, arent you?
Am I the only one responsible for him? Dont you care at all?
Do you even realize the toll this is taking on him?
Dans expression hardened, his mouth a thin line.
Like I was some madwoman, he grabbed his jacket and slammed the door behind him.
Tylers journal, with its wish for my disappearance, was still lying on the couch.
Dan had left his study lights on as usual.
He never bothers with issueseither saying something sharp to rile me up or storming out the door, leaving me to pick up the pieces.
The slam of the door woke Tyler. Barefoot, he padded out of his room, staring at the direction his dad left.
He came over, picked up his journal from the couch, frowning.
Mom, why do you always make Dad so mad?