Better Broke

My ex-husband and I mutually decided before getting married that because we were both unsupervised hellions growing up, I would quit my job as a flight attendant to be a stay at home mom whenever we had kids. It was a non negotiable as far as I was concerned, I wanted to raise my kids—ME, not a grandparent, not a daycare, babysitter, or to my initial disappointment, their own father because even as our first daughter was born, his drinking behavior was still that of an immature, irresponsible frat house boy. He was not a man. 

Still isn’t. 

I asked him once, when was he going to grow up and start acting like a responsible adult and he said this, verbatim, I’ll never forget it—MY grown up responsibility is to go out and make the money. And I think our marriage only lasted as long as it did because his job as a pilot meant he was gone a lot. I don’t think I could have survived him being home every single day. He might not have survived it, he gave me homicidal rage in those early years when we were forming our family. 

I was the poster child of a married single mom. I stayed because I secretly hoped that one day, my husband would change, would realize what a rich man he was beyond his six figure salary. He never did. One of the last things he said to me as my husband was, I’m afraid. And silly me felt sorry for him. What are you afraid of, I asked, expecting him to finally be having his epiphany. I’m afraid of being broke, was his answer.

I’m afraid, of being broke. And he made it his mission in life to make sure of that. Heartless bastard. 

Hey dumbass, when you’re on your deathbed, it’s going to be really hard to call your money and tell it how much you love it. 

Thanks for my children.