Chapter 1: The Hypocrite’s Son

My dad is the biggest hypocrite I know—always quick to judge everyone else but never himself. He dishes it out, but never takes a look in the mirror himself.

You’d think he was born with a gavel in his hand, the way he points fingers at everyone but never stops to check his own reflection. It’s like he’s got this mental scoreboard, and somehow, he always comes out on top. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if he even realizes how see-through he is—or if he just likes hearing his own voice bounce off the walls.

When I needed two hundred bucks for school fees, he called me a money pit. But when he’s burning through thousands on whiskey and karaoke nights, racking up credit card debt, he’ll just shrug and say, “That’s what a real man’s gotta do to get ahead.” Like he’s hustling for the family or something. Yeah, right.

He’d slam his fist on the table—eyes narrowed—acting like I’d just asked for a down payment on a house instead of some help with tuition. Meanwhile, he’d swagger home at 2 a.m.—reeking of bourbon, singing off-key country songs at the top of his lungs—acting like he was some big shot hustling for the family. The hypocrisy in the air was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. Sometimes I’d just sit there, stunned at how shameless he was.

When I asked for a thousand-dollar engagement ring to propose to my girlfriend, he tore into her, calling her a gold-digger and a leech. “She’s just after your money, Ethan!” he barked. “She’ll bleed you dry!”

He didn’t even lower his voice. I still remember the way he spat out the words like he was chewing on glass, not caring that she could hear him from the next room. There was this ugly sneer on his face, like he’d caught me bringing home a stray dog instead of the woman I loved. I wanted to punch a hole in the wall.

“Chasing after a girl like that—are you trying to ruin this family?”

His voice boomed through the house—picture frames rattling on the walls. It was like he wanted the whole neighborhood to know what a ‘traitor’ I was. I swear, even the dog next door probably heard every word.

He yelled at me so much I almost broke up with her. I mean, he was relentless. Meanwhile, he’s obsessed with some TikTok streamer, hell-bent on selling our house, divorcing my mom, and proposing to that woman. It was like living in a soap opera, except the only audience was me, and the only prize was misery.

It was like living in some twisted reality show—except there were no cameras, no big cash prize, just my dad glued to his phone, drooling over a woman half his age who called him “big spender” in livestreams. He talked about her like she was some kind of celebrity, not a stranger ready to drain his wallet dry. Sometimes I wondered if he even cared how pathetic it looked.

I tried to warn him he was getting scammed, but he accused me of betraying him—said I was taking a stranger’s side. He even believed the streamer’s lies that I was plotting to kill him for insurance money. The paranoia was unreal.

I couldn’t believe it. One minute I was his son, the next I was the villain in some made-up soap opera. He’d stare at me with wild eyes, clutching his phone like it was the last life raft on the Titanic, convinced I was out to get him. Trying to reason with him was like yelling at a brick wall—a really paranoid, angry wall. God, it was exhausting.

“If you’re broke, what decent woman would want you?”

He loved to throw that one at me, like money was the only thing that mattered. He’d say it with this smug little grin, like he was dropping some grand truth bomb instead of just another cheap shot. I wanted to roll my eyes every time.

“You’re just a loser—you don’t deserve to be my son!”

Every word stung, but I’d learned to keep my face blank, not give him the satisfaction. Still, every insult was like a pebble in my shoe—annoying at first, but after a while, it wore you down.

When I opened my eyes again, it was the day my dad demanded a divorce.

The memory hit me like a bucket of ice water. I blinked, trying to make sense of the timeline, the way everything felt both familiar and strange, like I’d just landed in a reboot of my own life. This time, I swore things would be different.

This time, I didn’t hesitate. I sided with him, pushed for the divorce, and helped my mom move out—all in one go, no dragging it out, no second-guessing.

My hands shook as I packed boxes, adrenaline buzzing under my skin, nerves jangling with dread. I kept telling myself this was the right thing—that maybe, just maybe, I could stop the nightmare before it started.

Some people are just doomed. You can’t save them. That’s what they say in movies, right?

I’d heard that line in movies, but living it? That was a whole different beast. There was a cold finality to it—like shutting a door so hard you feel the frame rattle.

“Carol, I stayed up all night thinking, and I realized our relationship is over.”

His words came out flat, rehearsed—like he was reading lines at a bad audition. He didn’t even look at my mom, just stared at the wall like he couldn’t stand to meet her eyes.

“Let’s just get the paperwork done today.”

He flicked his cigarette ash onto the carpet, not even pretending to care about the mess. The whole house smelled like stale smoke and old arguments, like you could bottle up the misery and sell it at a discount.

At home, my dad lounged on the couch, cigarette dangling from his lips, his tone ice cold. My mom’s eyes brimmed with tears as she glared at him, every muscle in her body trembling with anger and heartbreak. “I’ve stood by you for twenty years, and now you want a divorce because of some TikTok girl? Rick, are you even human?”

Her voice cracked on his name, like it physically hurt to say it. She looked so small standing there, shoulders hunched, mascara smudged in streaks. For a second, I wanted to step between them, shield her from the fallout—but I knew this was her fight.

My dad frowned. “Carol, love isn’t about how long you’ve been together.”

He said it like he’d just watched a motivational short on Instagram. There was no feeling in his voice, just this hollow certainty that made my skin crawl.

“My heart’s not in it anymore. What’s the point of staying?”

He stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray like that was the end of the conversation. The silence that followed was suffocating—broken only by my mom’s shaky breathing, each inhale a struggle.

They kept arguing, barely noticing me in the corner. My fists were clenched so tight my knuckles went white, eyes wide in shock at how fast everything was unraveling.

I could feel my nails digging into my palms, sharp enough to leave crescent marks. Their voices blurred together—accusations, denials, old wounds torn wide open. I felt invisible, but somehow more present than ever before.

But the sharp pain in my fingertips snapped me back to reality—reminding me I’d been given a second chance!

A jolt of realization ran through me, electric and sudden. This wasn’t just déjà vu—this was my shot to rewrite everything. I couldn’t waste it.

“I don’t agree!” my mom suddenly broke down, sobbing.

Her sobs echoed through the living room, raw and desperate. I’d never seen her cry like that—not even when Grandma died. It was the sound of something breaking, something you can’t glue back together.

“Rick, search your soul. When you were young, you were lazy and useless, never worked a day. I held this family together, I even lost this finger for us!”

She held up her hand, the missing finger a silent accusation. The scar was jagged, ugly—a wound that never really healed, a reminder of everything she’d given up.

“Now that life’s finally gotten a bit better, you want to leave me for that tramp? I won’t let you get away with it!”

Her voice was fierce, but underneath it was pure heartbreak. I could feel her pain like a punch to the gut, heavy and suffocating.

My dad shot up, shouting, “Carol Miller, you can’t stop me. Just look at you, old and worn out. You disgust me!”

He spat the words out like rotten food, his face twisted with rage. For a second, I saw the real man underneath—selfish, cruel, and utterly blind.

“And don’t bring up the past. Didn’t you take care of your precious son too, not just me!”

He turned on me, eyes blazing. It was like he needed a new target, someone else to blame for his own mess.

He glared at me, furious. “Always asking for tuition, groceries—every little thing you want covered. And when you got a girlfriend, you demanded a thousand-dollar engagement ring. He’s the real money-burner—if you want to collect debts, go after him!”

The words stung, but I was used to being the scapegoat. Still, hearing it out loud, right in front of my mom, made my blood boil. He never missed a chance to twist the knife and drive it deeper.

Seeing my dad shift the blame to me again, my mom was about to curse him out, but I stepped forward, grabbing her arm—steadying her, steadying myself.

I could feel her trembling under my hand. For a second, she looked at me like I was her last hope. I squeezed her arm, grounding us both, even as my own heart pounded.

“Mom, he’s right. If his heart’s already gone, what’s the point of keeping a deadbeat around?”

The words came out cold, colder than I meant, but I needed her to see the truth. Sometimes you have to cut your losses, even when it hurts like hell.

“Divorce him. Do it today.”

I said it as gently as I could, but there was steel in my voice. I wanted her to know I was on her side, no matter what happened next.

My mom stared at me in disbelief. “Ethan, what are you saying?”

Her voice was barely a whisper, raw with hurt. She looked at me like I’d just stabbed her in the back, and for a moment, I almost lost my nerve.

“You’re right, son. First time I’ve been proud of you,” my dad said, giving me a smug thumbs-up.

He grinned, all self-satisfaction, like he’d just won some rigged game show. I wanted to wipe that look right off his face.

I sneered. “Divorce is fine, but we have to split the assets properly.”

I met his eyes, refusing to back down. If he wanted out, he wasn’t taking us down with him. Not this time.

“Dad, you’re fine leaving with nothing, right?”

I kept my voice steady, but inside, I was daring him to say no. He’d always talked big—now it was time to see if he’d actually follow through.

My dad’s eyes bulged. “What are you talking about? Why should I leave with nothing?”

He looked like a cornered animal, finally realizing he’d walked into his own trap. For once, he had no snappy comeback.

“You cheated during the marriage, so don’t expect a dime. Take it to court and you’ll lose. Besides, I’ve got evidence of your affair.”

I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over the screen. I’d collected screenshots, messages—enough to make any judge see the truth. My dad’s face went pale. He knew he was busted.

“You little punk, don’t talk nonsense. When did I ever cheat?”

He tried to bluster, but his voice wavered. He knew he was caught, and it scared him more than he’d ever admit.

“Emotional cheating counts too. Don’t forget, you’ve been openly flirting with that TikTok streamer. Everyone knows about it.”

I let the words hang in the air, daring him to deny it. Even the neighbors had started gossiping. He was the last one to admit what everyone else already knew.

“This—!”

He sputtered, searching for words. For the first time, he looked truly lost. It was almost sad—almost.

My dad was speechless.

He stared at the floor, jaw clenched, fists shaking. For a second, he looked smaller than I’d ever seen him.

At that moment, my mom wiped her tears and said, “Rick, if you leave with nothing, I’ll consider you a real man. Otherwise, don’t even dream about it!”

Her voice was steady, her eyes hard as steel. She was done being the victim. For the first time in years, she looked unbreakable.

Eager to get away, my dad gritted his teeth. “Fine, I’ll leave with nothing. Just looking at you makes me sick. Let’s go, let’s get the paperwork done right now!”

He grabbed his jacket, practically sprinting for the door. I almost laughed at how fast he moved when money was on the line.

My parents grabbed their marriage certificate and headed to the county clerk’s office.

The drive over was silent as a tomb. I sat in the backseat, staring out the window, trying not to think about how final this all felt. At the courthouse, the fluorescent lights made everything look washed out and tired—like even the building wanted to go home.

Luckily, there’s no waiting period here—no drawn-out drama—so before long they came back with the divorce papers.

No last-minute tears, no begging, just a few signatures and it was over. My dad left with a shrug, not even looking back. My mom stood there, papers in hand, looking like she’d aged ten years in an hour.