It turns out there are restraining orders filed against him in Montana too, as well as an outstanding arrest warrant from his previous visit.
Another state, another chapter of chaos he failed to mention. If these are the big lies—the glaring, documented truths he withheld—what other untruths did he spin daily? How many more pieces of his fabricated reality have I yet to uncover?
No wonder I feel so unmoored, so deeply confused. He lied about everything. Hell, he couldn’t even admit he likedcatsbefore he met mine. So why would I expect him to be honestabout the big things—his child, his history of abuse, or the real reason for those protection orders?
He weaponizes everything.
When someone is as good as Timmy at twisting reality, at spinning every failure into someone else’s fault, it’s disorienting.
At first, it’s hard to pinpoint the issue He was so convincing, redirecting every doubt, throwing out ‘whataboutisms’ until I started doubting myself instead.
Is the way I remember it really how it happened?
Because he seemed so sure, so confident in his version of events.
Now, with distance, I see it clearly—he knew exactly what he was doing.
Exploiting the natural fragility of memory to reshape the narrative.
Making me look like the crazy, desperate, toxic mess he actually was.
The amount of pain he caused me bubbles away under the surface, insidious and rotting. Therapy can help, sure, but it won’t be enough for me.
I need more.
I needvengeance.
My phone buzzes, jolting me from my thoughts. I glance at the screen.
Phil.
The sight of his name sends a burst of anxiety through me. My heart races, blood pounding in my temples. My entire body feels like it’s vibrating with tension.
It’s as if the sight of his name on my phone screen just set me back weeks in my healing.
“Why’s he calling?” I mutter. “What does he want now?”
Maybe it’s to ask me not to tell the truth about his son, because he’s not getting any dates, and it’s making it impossible for Phil to get Timmy off his hands.
I let it go to voicemail, too anxious to answer. When the notification dings, I hesitate for a moment before pressing play with a trembling hand.
His voice is gruff, but he’s clearly trying to keep it calm and fake cordial. “We’re about to head to Costco,” he says, as if I care. “And when we get back, I’d appreciate it if you could call me.” There’s a pause, the faintest edge of menace creeping into his tone. “Actually, youwillcall me back.”
I shudder at the implication, my stomach turning.
The man is just as controlling as his awful son.
No wonder Timmy turned out the way he did.
I scoff at his mention of Costco. “Predictable,” I mutter.
I glance at my watch. It’s the 6thof the month.Of course it is.
Food stamp money just came in, and now Phil’s dragging Timmy to the store to recoup whatever he can.
I imagine Timmy tagging along, trying to act like the dutiful son. Is he making his father pay for his contribution in other ways, just like he did with me? Is he micromanaging every step they take in the store, obsessing over which cart they grab, painstakingly massaging each onion to ensure it’s ‘perfect’?
The thought sends a wave of nausea through me. I don’t want to dismiss his food insecurity—that’s a legitimate struggle. But when it’s weaponized, used as another tool of control, it becomes something else entirely.