Torn Between Me and His Ex

The year my son, Charlie Pattison, turned seven, my husband, Jim Pattison, stopped hiding it. He brought a poor mother and her son into our world without a shred of shame. Word got around fast, and no shortage of people came sniffing for gossip, eager to watch me fall apart. I swallowed my pride and said nothing. Then that woman's son slapped Charlie at school. That was the last straw. I told Charlie to hit him back. That night, Jim—who hadn't set foot in our house in a month—showed up out of nowhere. Charlie burst into tears of joy and threw his arms open to run to him. What he got in return was a slap across the face. Chapter 1 That slap knocked the smile off my son's face and shattered my composure right along with it. For the first time in my life, I threw away every scrap of the composure I'd been raised with and shoved Jim Pattison, hard. My son's face was streaked with tears, but he rushed straight into my arms. "Mom, it doesn't hurt," he said, panicked. "Please don't be angry." Hearing Charlie comfort me like that only made my chest ache worse. In a boy of just seven, I could see a maturity that had no business belonging to someone his age—enough that even after being struck himself, his first instinct was to protect what was left between his parents. Jim didn't seem to notice any of it. He looked at me for two silent seconds, his eyes cold and indifferent beneath his brow. "You two already have more than enough," he said. "Don't be so ungrateful." Fury surged through me. Ungrateful? What did I have to be grateful for? Back then, it was Jim who'd approached my family for this marriage. I'd heard the stories about him—that he'd once fallen for an orphan girl, only for his family to step in and end it before it went anywhere. So I'd turned him down outright. He hadn't given up. He'd chased me across the country and then all the way to Scandinavia. Wherever I went, by the next day someone had already picked up the tab on my behalf. He was refined but decisive, commanding without ever overstepping. A year of that kind of pursuit, and I'd fallen for him. The first five years of our marriage were passionate. We fought sometimes, sure, but we rarely stayed angry more than a few days before things were right between us again. My mother used to say we bickered like an old married couple who couldn't stay mad at each other if they tried. Then Elizabeth Johnson came back into his life, and all of it fell apart with barely any effort at all. Jim's attention started drifting. First, he forgot our anniversary, then our son's birthday. Then came the long absences, always excused as work. And now, he didn't even bother pretending anymore—he'd started bringing that woman and her son into our social circle, in full view of everyone we knew. It was a slap to my face, plain and simple. I could live with being humiliated myself. But watching her son bully my own child? That was something no mother could just accept. So I calmly had the housekeeper take Charlie to his room, then turned to Jim and said, "Let's get a divorce." The living room went dead silent. Jim had been drinking water. He stopped mid-sip and turned to look at me, his eyes full of mockery. "You want a divorce over one slap?" Before I could answer, he stepped closer, his meaning unmistakable. "Your family's Brightwater project is about to launch, isn't it? Does your father even have time to deal with your problems?" He'd gone straight for the throat. My family's cash flow had been tight the past two years, and Jim really had helped more than once. But he'd read the situation wrong—my parents would never trade my happiness for money. Seeing me go quiet, he must have assumed I was scared, because he reached out on instinct to touch my face. His hand found nothing but air the moment I turned away, and his expression went dark. He scoffed and turned to walk out—and that was when our son suddenly burst forward, as if he'd been listening for exactly this moment. "Dad, Mom and I made dinner together tonight. Eat with us." His voice was earnest, his small hand fisted so tight in Jim's jacket that his knuckles had gone white. Jim didn't answer. He just looked over at me instead, that unhurried, unbothered expression making it clear he was waiting for me to be the one to back down. Anger flared in my chest again, but then I looked at my son—the handprint still red on his cheek, and still, somehow, hungry for his father's love. Chapter 2 I couldn't get the word "no" out. All I managed, under Jim's mocking stare, was a stiff, "Stay. Please. Charlie burned his hands cooking that." Jim raised an eyebrow and sat down, visibly pleased with himself. Thrilled, Charlie scrambled to pile several dishes into his father's bowl. "This is the first time I made this," he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Mom says it's really good. Try it, Dad." Jim listened with half an ear, his attention locked on his phone. Just as he lifted a bite to his mouth, something on the screen made his brow crease. He set his fork down with a sharp crack, grabbed his suit jacket, and hurried out the door—without so much as a word goodbye. The food Charlie had set on his plate sat there, untouched, going cold. My son didn't say anything. He just hung his head. It wasn't until the tears started falling, one after another, that I finally pulled him into my arms. I meant to tell him the same lie I always did—that his father was simply too busy. But he already knew, without me having to say it, whose ringtone that had been. Elizabeth Johnson's. That night, after turning it over in my mind, I finally told my parents everything. They asked me to confirm my decision, more than once, and then gave me their answer without hesitation: liquidate the assets, and wait for the right moment. I already knew they'd heard about the mess Jim had made of things. They'd never brought it up, only because they didn't want to embarrass me—but they'd clearly been preparing for a while, just waiting for me to take the first step. I was still deep in thought when a floorboard creaked somewhere in the dark. My heart skipped, and I spun around to find my son standing small in the doorway. I had no idea how much of what I'd just said he'd overheard. But over the thunder of my own heartbeat, all he asked, perfectly calm, was what he should wear to the charity gala tomorrow. I froze for a second, then bent down and pulled him close. "Your dad's coming to take us shopping for it tomorrow. Don't worry." He nodded and went obediently back to his room. I watched him go and let out a long sigh. After a night of tossing and turning, Jim showed up right on time to pick us up. Charlie, who'd already been waiting outside, lit up and pulled the car door open—only to have the smile freeze on his face a second later. Sitting in the seat that had always been his was a boy his own age: Elizabeth Johnson's son, Milo Foster. And sitting in my seat was Elizabeth herself. The breath caught in my throat. It felt like being slapped across the face. "You're bringing them to the gala?" Showing up somewhere that formal with the two of them in tow would be no different than smearing filth across my name in front of everyone. Before Jim could answer, Elizabeth hurried to step in front of him. "No, no, it's not like that! Autumn, please don't blame Jim. He just felt sorry for the two of us and offered to take us to pick out a few outfits, that's all." Her posture was meek, her voice weak and pitiful—but the look she gave me was perfectly composed. I wasn't in the mood to play nice with her, so I asked her straight out. "You know I'd blame him for this. So why did you still come along?" Elizabeth stared at me, wide-eyed, looking as wronged as a woman with no way to defend herself, and tears started sliding down her face. Milo reached up with a tender little hand to wipe her cheek and burst into loud sobs right along with her. Jim's voice cut in, cold. "That's enough, Autumn." He looked at me, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Get in the Bentley." He hadn't said much, but his choice had already been made clear. The staff standing around exchanged glances, and I felt something bitter and metallic rise in my throat. My vision swam dark for a moment—and then my son's small, cold hand found mine. He looked up at his father, his voice stubborn. "Why do Mom and I have to ride in that car?" Jim's brow furrowed. It was the first time our son had ever defied him. Chapter 3 Impatience flickered across Jim's face, but before he could get a word out, Elizabeth shook her head at him, gentle and understanding, and led Milo off toward the other car without complaint. As if she were afraid I might start something with Jim, she glanced back once she was inside, gave him a soft, reassuring smile, and let him know she was fine. That gesture alone was enough to light the fuse on Jim's temper. He got straight into the Bentley and slammed the door, leaving me and Charlie standing there like a couple of fools. Whatever Elizabeth said to Milo, it made him burst out laughing. He rolled down his window and called out, all mock innocence, "Don't be mad, Charlie. Mom and I gave up our seats for you two. No need to thank us." My son's face went pale, his small body trembling. I couldn't stand to watch him take it. "That car's registered under my name," I shot back. "What business do you or your mother have giving it up?" Elizabeth faltered, shot me a weak glance, and pulled Milo—his face flushed red—close to murmur an apology. "I'm sorry, Autumn. It's our fault. Please don't be upset." Jim clicked his tongue and cut in coldly, "Enough, both of you. It's just a car. Is this really worth dragging out?" Without waiting for a response, he drove off without a backward glance. Charlie looked up at me, forced an ugly little smile, and pulled me into the car. He stayed silent the whole ride, glancing every so often at the Bentley beside us. Milo, by the window of the other car, caught him looking and flashed a strange little grin. A second later, he slowly lifted something into view: a charm. Charlie's expression changed instantly. It was the gift he'd made for Jim—the one we'd spent a whole month working on together. In less than a week, that charm, meant for Jim's keys, had ended up crushed and mangled in Milo's fist. Grinning, Milo stared straight at Charlie and mouthed, exaggerating every word. "Trash. I wouldn't take it even for free!" Charlie's chest heaved. His lips shook, his eyes locked on Milo's hands. I couldn't bear to watch him suffer and reached to turn his face away—but in the next second, Milo rolled down the window and flung the charm out onto the road. Almost before I could react, Charlie threw open the car door and jumped out without a moment's hesitation. My heart lurched into my throat. "No—Charlie!" Two brakes shrieked in quick succession. Jim and I were both out of our cars before either had fully stopped. But the instant my hand landed on my son, Jim scooped him up and was already racing toward the hospital. Not until the doctor told us he was fine did my hands finally start shaking, and I broke down in tears. Jim looked just as shaken—I'd never seen his face go that pale. Once he'd pieced together what had actually happened, he went quiet for a long time. Elizabeth, looking terrified, pulled Milo straight down onto their knees. "Milo just lost his grip on it, he didn't mean it. Please, Autumn, let it go this once." The two of them huddled together, shaking like a pair of frightened birds—anyone watching would've thought I was about to do something to them. Jim, unable to bear the sight, helped them up and saw them out, then hurried back inside. Charlie hadn't broken any bones, but there were deep scrapes along his arm and across his face, and he'd sweated through the stitches. Still, there was a strange, satisfied glow on his face. "Dad really does care about me, doesn't he?" he whispered to me. "Mom, if this is what it takes to keep him around, I don't mind falling a few more times." It felt like a knife twisting in my chest. If the only way my son could earn scraps of his father's love was like this, I'd rather he had no father at all. "Go get some sleep." At midnight, Jim's voice came from behind me. I tucked the blanket snugly around my son and stepped out of the room with him. Chapter 4 I studied Jim's tired face. "What are you going to do about this?" Jim had just reached for a cigarette, but his hand stopped. He flicked his lighter on instead, staring into the flame. "Milo didn't mean it. Let's just drop it this time." I laughed. "Drop it? How generous of you. Your own son doesn't even rank above someone else's." The words were harsh on purpose—I was ready to tear this open completely. But Jim didn't react with the anger I'd expected. He just studied my face carefully, then said, out of nowhere, "You've lost weight lately." I froze for a second. I had lost a little, though barely enough to notice. He kept watching my expression and went on bluntly. "There's nothing going on between me and Elizabeth and her son. Don't read into it. I just feel sorry for them, so I've been helping her with a lawsuit. Once it's settled, I'll cut back on seeing them." I caught the key word in that sentence—not "never see them again," but "cut back." A full year of drifting away from us, and all he had to explain it with was one flimsy word: pity. His story had more holes than I could count, but the moment my gaze landed on our son's hospital bed, my mind went conveniently blank. "Charlie's birthday is next Tuesday," I said quietly. "Make sure you're there." Seeing that I wasn't going to push further, Jim relaxed. He reached out and touched my face. "Got it. Eat more these days—you're thin enough to bruise." It was the same kind of teasing he used to toss my way all the time. But I felt no urge at all to banter back. As I turned to walk away, something in Jim's eyes dimmed. We'd both been raised soft and spoiled. Who could keep coaxing someone like that forever? Elizabeth could. … On the fourth day of Jim giving Elizabeth the cold shoulder, Milo forced his way into our house. It was Charlie's birthday. I'd spent hours arranging every detail, and nearly everyone we knew had shown up. They all noticed the cut on my son's forehead, but true to form, no one said a word about it—the same way no one had mentioned Jim's absence on this exact day the year before. It was a humiliating little secret everyone happened to know. This time, though, Jim played the part of a real father, holding our son's hand as they cut the cake together. Everything was perfect—until Milo burst in, screaming. "Uncle Jim! Mom took her pills, and I can't wake her up! Please, please save her!" Milo's voice was loud and pitiful, echoing again and again through the open yard. Jim let go of Charlie's hand instantly and strode over, his face grim. My heart hammered in my chest, and I ran to block his path. "Send your assistant. Please. It's Charlie's birthday." For the first time in my life, I begged him, lowering myself to plead with him to just look back—to look at our son's face. Jim pushed my hand away without hesitation. "A life is at stake. Charlie's a good kid. He'll understand." He pushed through the crowd of curious guests and disappeared from sight. A chill crept up from the soles of my feet. I turned my stiff neck, inch by inch, to look at my son. Charlie stood there among the guests, staring blankly at the direction his father had gone, the cake knife still frozen in his hand exactly where it had been. Beside him, with a child's blunt honesty, one of his classmates piped up. "Charlie, why did your dad just leave with Milo? Is he Milo's dad too?" The moment the words left his mouth, the boy's parent clapped a hand over his mouth. But my son showed no anger at all. He looked over calmly, the corner of his mouth curling into a faint smile. "Maybe," he said.