Timmy surprises me by setting up phones around the living room.
“What are you doing?” I ask, watching him dart from phone to phone.
“Making a time-lapse video of you assembling the boxes,” he says with a proud smile. “I figure you can use it for marketing.”
It’s such a small gesture, yet it floors me. His creativity, his attention to detail—it feels like love distilled into action.
My eyes sting as I watch him wrap the completed boxes in black plastic, sealing each with precision.
For a moment, life feels almost perfect. Despite the chaos, despite the missteps, there are these fleeting moments of clarity where everything aligns.
And I wonder:How did things turn around so fast? And how did they get this good?
A FEW DAYS LATER
Timmy leans against the kitchen counter, his face lit with an unusual energy. “Please, please, can you order me some hats? I’ll work on them full-time and make us some money.”
Timmy is hellbent on starting his hat business, and of course that means he needs actual hats.
It’s a plea I’ve heard before, but this time, he has numbers. He shows me calculations, spreadsheets he’s cobbled together, projections of profits. On paper, it looks promising. I can almost see the vision he’s painting—Timmy, focused and productive, creating custom hats, filling orders, and bringing in income.
Against my better judgment, I place the order. Not because I don’t believe in the idea, but because I don’t entirely believe inhim.
The investment feels nauseating—several thousand dollars drained from my savings for hat presses, materials, and custom patches. Each click of ‘add to cart’ feels like a gamble, a bet on someone who’s let me down too many times.
The hats arrive, and—at first—there’s movement. He tinkers with designs, experiments with vinyl and leather patches. But soon, the momentum fades.
Days go by, then weeks, and the hats sit, untouched, stacked in boxes like relics of a dream deferred.
“I need the custom patches to get here,” he explains, when I ask why he isn’t trying to sell them.
When the patches arrive, the excuse changes. “I need to wait for the right time to launch.”
I try reasoning with him. “You have simpler designs ready to go. You could start selling those while you wait.”
But there’s always something—a sore stomach, bad weather, a fight he claims stifled his creativity.
One day, I bring up the concept of executive function, desperate to break through.
“Timmy, adults all over the world get out of bed and go to work every day, even when they hate it. You have the tools, the time, and the opportunity to pursue your dream job, and yet you sleep in and make excuses day after day. Does that seem fair?”
He scowls. “Everything’s about money to you, isn’t it?” His face shifts from guilt to indignation. “Well, remember,youmade me lose my last job. I was providing money before this.”
I’m stunned. “Timmy, this isn’t just about money. And your part-time job wasn’t exactly full-time support. This is about effort, about following through. Do you understand how that makes me feel—when I’ve spent my life savings providingyouwithyourdream—and your behavior is taking me away frommyown dreams that I’ve worked so hard for?”
“I’m sorry,” he frowns and sighs. “I’ll do better.” Then his eyes narrow as he identifies another opportunity to retaliate against me. “Well, now you’ve upset me. So I’m not working today.”
He slams his laptop shut, his punishment for my audacity to set expectations.
CHAPTER 111
A STRANGE SANCTUARY
MARGAUX
Isit in the truck on a video call with my therapist, her gaze steady but kind. The parking garage is quiet except for the faint hum of passing traffic. It feels like a strange sanctuary—a dirty bubble where the chaos of my life can’t quite reach me.
“He’s following through on everything he promised,” I say, my voice tinged with both hope and weariness. “He’s even listening to an audiobook with me about quitting drinking. We talk about each chapter as we finish it, like a mini book club. It’s... nice.”